Rafe had expected whiskey, dice, maybe a decent fight if the Docklanders were drunk enough. What he hadn't expected was the way the Tooth breathed around him, its wards humming low like they knew his name.

Or her.

Elara moved through the lamplight with that same sharp steadiness Elias had promised, her hands sure on glass and rag, her voice cutting the room into order like a dockmaster in a storm. But when her gaze brushed his—just brushed—something caught deep in his chest and pulled.

It wasn't just the witch. It was the devil too.

Malachi leaned too close, grinning like he knew every thought already. His amber eyes burned, daring Rafe to flinch, daring him to bare teeth. And the worst part? The pull ran to him as well—different than Elara, darker, sharper—but no less real.

Mates weren't supposed to split like this. Wolves had one bond, clean and sure as blood. His pack drilled that truth into bone. And yet here he sat, scarred hands wrapped around a glass he hadn't touched, heart pounding like it was caught between two hearthfires.

The Tooth was empty around them, dice clattering to silence, laughter fading into fog. By the time the last latch slid into place, there were only three of them left—the witch, the devil, and the wolf.

And Rafe couldn't tell if he'd just stumbled into the safest place in Ashgrave... or the hungriest den.

Elare had already begun her closing ritual—lantern wicks turned low one by one, chairs tipped neatly onto tables, cloth sweeping in measured arcs across the counter. Every movement deliberate, steady, as if the order of it alone could hold the whole bar upright.

Beside him, Malachi leaned lazy against the wood, sleeves rolled, amber eyes burning too bright in the dim. His grin never faltered—sharp and hungry, but charmed enough to look harmless if you didn't know better.

"You see it, don't you?" Malachi's voice was smoke and velvet, pitched low enough that only Rafe caught it. "The way she holds the room together, the way the wards hum when she breathes. Even the walls want her."

Rafe's throat worked, but he didn't answer. He watched Elara move through the lantern-glow, the spark under his skin tugging every time she passed too close.

Malachi's grin widened, slow and deliberate. "Don't look so haunted, wolf. You're not imagining it." He tipped his glass in Rafe's direction, amber sloshing. "Some bonds don't wait for permission."

Heat coiled in Rafe's chest, confusion and want twisted into one. "Mates don't split," he muttered again, the words slipping before he could swallow them.

Malachi chuckled, delighted, leaning close enough that Rafe caught the faint bite of smoke and iron clinging to him. "Oh, that's the best part. You think fate only deals in tidy hands? No no, love—sometimes it throws the whole deck at you and waits to see what you'll do."

Rafe forced his gaze away, fixed it on the rag in Elara's hand, the sure flex of her fingers as she wiped down the counter. But the spark burned hotter, and Malachi's grin stayed sharp in the corner of his vision, daring him to look back.

The bar fell into hush as the last lantern dimmed low, shadows settling like breath against the walls. Elara moved through them steady as clockwork, her braid swinging with each turn, her hands sure as she pressed the wardlines one final time. The hum followed her like a second pulse—low, alive, answering her touch.

Rafe couldn't drag his eyes away. She didn't look at them as she worked, but he felt the pull just the same, as if every step she took drew that spark tighter across his skin. It wasn't just want. It was something deeper, bone-deep, raw enough to unsettle him.

Beside him, Malachi was watching too—grin sharp, chin propped on one hand, eyes lit like fire behind glass. The devil didn't bother to hide it; he drank her in openly, unashamed, like she was already his.

"See?" Malachi murmured, not looking away. "Even tired, she's exquisite. The room bends around her."

Rafe's jaw clenched, fingers tightening on the glass he hadn't finished. He hated how much he agreed.

And then she turned. Closing complete, cloth folded, lanterns low, she walked back toward the bar where they sat. Her steps were measured, but the weight of both their gazes met her halfway.

As Elara slid onto the stool beside him, the faint brush of her sleeve setting that spark under Rafe's skin alight again. She didn't look at either of them as she reached but the glass never entered her hand.

Malachi was already there. He plucked it up with a lazy curl of his fingers, filled it just to the line, and slid it across the polished wood until it stopped in front of her. The motion was smooth, deliberate—claim and tease in one.

"On the house," he said, grin sharp, amber eyes catching the lamplight. He added a slow wink for good measure, like every gesture was a private joke meant to unravel her.

Elara's eyes flicked up, narrowed—but she didn't shove the glass back. She curled her fingers around it, lifted it as though daring him to press further, and drank.

Rafe's throat worked hard. From this close, he could see the line of her jaw tighten, the faint tremor in her pulse where it beat under her skin. And beside her, the devil smiled like he owned the night.

Elara leveled him another with a look over the rim of her glass, sharp as a wardline. Playful, though—like she was daring him to push her patience one inch further.

Malachi only grinned wider, boyish and dangerous all at once, like a child about to knock over the inkpot just to see her scowl. He leaned an elbow on the bar, eyes gleaming hot as he tipped his chin toward Rafe.

"At least someone enjoyed my pour," he drawled, gaze sliding to the wolf's untouched whiskey. "Even if it wasn't you, love."

Rafe felt the weight of both their stares as his hand tightened around the glass. The amber caught the lantern-glow, steady and patient—everything he wasn't, not with the spark in his chest rattling him apart.

His mouth was dry, but the words came anyway. "I didn't say I didn't."

Malachi's grin curved sharper, devil's heat spilling across the space between them. Elara's eyes flicked between the two of them, her glare faltering just enough that the air thrummed with something heavier.

Rafe lifted the glass at last and tipped back a swallow, the burn sharp enough to steady him. He set it down with more force than he meant to, amber still clinging to the rim.

"Not bad," he said, eyes flicking to Malachi. "For a devil."

Malachi laughed, low and delighted, like Rafe had just passed some secret test. "See? He does like me." He turned the full force of his grin on Elara, wicked as sin. "Careful, love, your wolf might steal my seat at the bar."

Elara's eyes narrowed, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest tug upward. "He wouldn't have to try very hard. You'd give it up just to stir trouble."

"Guilty," Malachi admitted easily, swirling his own drink. Then, more softly—though still sharp enough to prickle—"...But not for just anyone."

Rafe felt the pull of that look, amber and fire aimed straight at him, and before he could decide whether to bristle or lean in, Elara cut across the silence.

"So, Rafe Calder," she said, her voice as steady as her wards, though her hand curled around her glass like an anchor. "You grew up Dockside?"

He blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "Born there. Raised there. Still live close enough to hear the bells when the tide's wrong." He tapped the scarred knuckles of one hand against the wood. "Pack keeps me busy."

Elara nodded once, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "Explains the shoulders."

That earned a surprised huff of laughter out of him—real, unguarded. "That a compliment or an observation?"

Her gaze held steady, too sharp to be either. "Both."

Malachi leaned between them just far enough that the heat of him pressed close, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "Oh, she likes you. She only points out what she notices." He winked at Elara as he slid his own glass across the wood, lazy as smoke. "And she notices more than she admits."

Elara shot him a glare sharp enough to salt the bar, but her cheeks warmed despite it. Rafe watched the color rise, felt the spark in his chest pull tighter, and knew—he was already in too deep.

Elara swirled her drink, gaze fixed on the glass. "You're impossible," she muttered, but the words had edge enough to sting.

Malachi's grin curved like a blade. "Took her a year to admit she liked me enough to let me behind the bar."

"I still don't," Elara said flatly, lifting her glass. "I just got tired of cleaning twice to undo your messes."

Rafe's brow rose. "So you've been at this for—what—years?"

"She's been denying me for years," Malachi corrected smoothly. "But you'll notice she hasn't thrown me out yet."

Elara gave him a look sharp enough to salt the wood. "Only because no one else polishes glasses with as much dramatic flair."

Rafe huffed a laugh, caught between disbelief and intrigue. "You either patch each other's throats or cut them, I can't tell which."

"Both," Malachi said without hesitation, amber eyes gleaming.

Elara's jaw tightened. "Not both. Never both. Don't make it sound like more than it is."

But the way she drained the rest of her glass and set it down with deliberate calm only made Malachi grin sharper, as though her denial was the sweetest confession he'd ever heard.

The wards hummed faintly, restless under her palm, like they knew the truth even if she refused to name it.

Rafe sat with his glass half gone, watching them spark off each other like flint and steel. The wolf in him recognized the tension for what it was—bond threads pulled taut, vibrating with heat. But the man in him couldn't reconcile it. She denied him at every turn, sharp as glass, yet Malachi grinned like every refusal was a promise.

He'd seen wolves circle their mates before, hesitation and hunger knotted together. But this—this was different. Witches didn't tangle their magic lightly. Devils didn't tether at all, if the stories were true. And yet here they were, locked in some rhythm older than both, while he sat between them feeling the same spark hum in his own chest.

Elara brushed past him to gather the last of the empty glasses. Her shoulder brushed his arm, light as it was, and the tether in him sang like a plucked string. He stiffened, staring down at the scars on his hands as though they might explain the pull. They didn't.

Malachi noticed, of course. The devil always noticed. His grin curved slow, sharp. "Ah, so he feels it too." Amber eyes gleamed hotter as they lingered on Rafe. "Good boy."

Heat prickled up Rafe's neck. He wanted to snarl at the mockery—wanted to deny the truth of it. But Elara slid back behind the bar just then, her wards brushing steady against his skin like a grounding hand, and the words tangled in his throat.

He didn't know which of them unsettled him more—the witch who denied her devil, or the devil who smiled like he'd already won.