The morning came gray and damp, the fog pressing heavy enough against the shutters that the Tooth's lanterns felt dim even after she lit them. Elara stacked crates behind the counter, sleeves shoved past her elbows, trying not to think about the words she'd spoken last night.

Before we open.

The latch clattered, and Jonah stumbled in with another stack of deliveries. His curls were plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed red not just from the weight but from something sharper.

"Morning, Miss Keene!" he squeaked, a little too bright. He set the crate down with a thud that made the bottles rattle.

Behind her, Malachi leaned against the counter, all lazy devil grace, polishing a glass that didn't need polishing. His grin was a sin incarnate. "Careful, boy. You'll break your back trying to carry things out of your league."

Jonah went scarlet, sputtering as his ears turned near crimson. "I—I wasn't—"

Elara's glare could have salted the earth. "Malachi."

He only grinned wider, unrepentant, amber eyes glinting as he tipped the glass in Jonah's direction. "Just being helpful."

Jonah ducked his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like not fair, before shoving his empty sack under his arm. He all but bolted for the door.

Elara pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharp. "You're insufferable."

"Mm." Malachi's grin curved, slow and wicked. "And yet, you keep me."

The latch clicked again before she could retort. The wards hummed low, steady, as the door opened—and Rafe Calder filled the frame. Broad shoulders, golden eyes catching the lantern-light, the faint scent of salt and wolf curling through the bar.

Elara's heart stuttered once before she caught it. She was still glaring at Malachi when she said, too evenly, "You're early."

Rafe's gaze flicked between the three of them—the boy was red-faced, Malachi was grinning like he enjoyed te scolding, and Elara standing in the middle with her arms crossed. Something in his expression shifted, caught between confusion and amusement.

"Guess I came at the right time, then," he said.

Elara exhaled, dragging her hand through the air like she was clearing smoke. "Rafe, Jonah. Jonah, Rafe." Her tone carried the weight of behave or else, even if the words were simple.

Jonah froze halfway to the door, sack clutched to his chest. He blinked up at the wolf, eyes wide, then managed a jerky nod. "Uh—hi." His voice cracked, and he coughed into his sleeve like that fixed it.

Rafe inclined his head in return, steady, polite. "Morning." His voice held that same gravel-warmth as last night, though there was a flicker in his golden eyes—something curious, measuring.

Malachi hummed low behind the counter, grin wicked as ever. "What a charming tableau. The delivery boy, the wolf, the witch... all under one roof. Sounds like the beginning of a very interesting story."

Elara's glare snapped toward him, sharp enough to slice glass. "Or the end of your teeth if you keep talking."

Malachi only laughed, swirling his glass like he'd won something.

Jonah shuffled toward the door, muttering a farewell that barely made it past his lips. The wards sighed as he slipped out into the fog, leaving Rafe where he stood, solid as stone and twice as steady.

Elara wiped her palms on her apron, straightened, and gestured toward the bar. "Sit, if you're staying. We open soon."

Rafe's gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than necessary before he moved forward, his scarred hands resting easy on the counter.

Malachi leaned in, amber eyes glinting as he set a glass down in front of him. "Told you he'd be back."

Rafe settled onto the stool, his scarred hands curling around the glass Malachi slid his way. He didn't drink right away. His golden eyes flicked to Elara, steady, weighted.

"Elias got pulled in last night," he said, voice low. "That call was straight from the Docks and why he left early."

Elara stilled, rag hanging loose from her hand. The wards hummed faint at her back, as if leaning in to listen. "For the attack?"

Rafe exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening once before he spoke. "Yeah... One of ours. He'd been dabbling in Powder too long, and someone sold him a Vial mix that went bad. Had put him down where he stood."

The words landed heavy, iron on stone.

Elara pressed her palm to the counter, grounding herself in the wood. "Gods."

Malachi leaned back on his stool, slow, deliberate, his grin returning by degrees. "Well, love," he drawled, tilting his glass toward her, "seems your wolf brought you a gift this morning. Not answers... But fewer lies to choke on."

Rafe's golden eyes lingered on her again, steady, almost questioning. As if to ask whether she'd regret inviting him into the storm after all.

By the time the bolt slid back, the fog had thinned enough that pale light bled through the shutters. Elara tied her clean apron on, wards humming sharp and steady under her palms. The Tooth smelled of cut lemon and smoke, the bar polished until it caught the lantern glow.

Rafe was still perched at the counter, glass half-drained, when the latch jangled again, and two figures stepped in together. 

Cassian first—coat damp from the mist, notebook already tucked beneath his arm. Casimir followed close behind, pale hair neat as a blade, gloves folded with the kind of precision that made her wards hum with warning. His presence cut through the room like velvet and iron both.

Elara's stomach tightened. Again.

"Miss Keene," Cassian greeted, polite as ever, though his gaze swept the room as if measuring the air. "Apologies for the hour."

Casimir's smile followed, smooth as poured wine. "We require Neutral ground again. Tonight, if you'll have it. Tomorrow, if you must." His eyes lingered on her too long, the velvet weight of his attention curling like smoke.

Rafe stiffened beside her, golden eyes narrowing. His hand tightened against his glass, but he said nothing. Not yet.

Malachi leaned against the bar with a grin sharp as broken glass. "Bold, walking in here like you already own the room. Careful, diplomat.. Wolves are know to bite"

Casimir's gaze slid at last to Rafe, measuring, unruffled. "And yet you bring them here. How... interesting."

The wards thrummed under Elara's palms, sharp as iron. She straightened her shoulders, cutting across them all. "The room is available," she said, steady as stone. "On the same condition as last time. No blood on my floors."

Casimir's smile deepened. "Of course."

His smile lingered like smoke as he and Cassian exchanged a few quiet words. Then, with a courteous nod, they turned and slipped back into the fog, the latch clicking shut behind them. The wards settled, though not enough to soothe the air.

Rafe hadn't moved. His golden eyes stayed fixed on Elara, though his voice came out rougher than before. "I don't understand it. This pull." He flexed his scarred hands against the counter, jaw tight. "It's not just you." His gaze flicked, unwilling, toward Malachi. "It's him too and... that other man. Casimir... Like threads catching, tugging at me whether I want it or not."

Elara stiffened, rag clutched too tight in her hand. Her wards thrummed faint, echoing the admission.

Malachi's grin curved slow, wicked. "Mm... Good boy."

Rafe bristled, but his voice only dropped lower. "This isn't how it's supposed to work. Wolves don't split like this. A mate is one. One bond, one tether." He shook his head, frustration cutting through his tone. "But this? It's like something bigger's weaving, pulling us in whether we choose it or not."

Elara swallowed, throat dry. Poly-bonds. Old stories whispered about them, binding not just hearts but whole races together, one of each to balance the circle.  She'd dismissed them as myth, and still would—fairy tales told to make chaos sound ordained whenit wasn't.

But with Malachi grinning like a devil already won, and Rafe staring at her like the spark was a curse he couldn't shake, the weight of the stories pressed too close.

"You're imagining it," she said at last, too sharp, too fast.

Rafe's golden eyes burned hotter. "No. I'm not."

Malachi chuckled low, velvet curling with smoke. "Oh, love. You can deny me all you like. But the wolf sees the truth, can feel it in his bones."

The wards thrummed, restless, as if the very walls knew a circle had begun to form.

Malachi shifted, slow enough that the movement was more smoke than step. His fingers brushed across Elara's wrist—light as ash, almost careless. Yet the spark leapt sharp at the touch, hot enough to catch in her breath.

"See?" he murmured, amber eyes burning brighter than the lanterns. "Even your skin knows it, love."

Elara jerked her hand back as though scalded, a rag dropped to the floor. "Enough." The word cracked, brittle as glass.

Malachi's grin only curved sharper, wicked and boyish all at once. "Not even nearly."

Rafe's golden gaze lingered between them, confusion burning hotter, steadier. He hadn't touched her at all, but the pull thrummed through him like a chord struck too deep.

None of them moved. The wards hummed louder, alive with the weight of a bond none of them wanted to name.

Malachi's grin curved, sharper still. He let his hand fall from Elara—only to shift, slow and deliberate, until his fingers brushed the back of Rafe's scarred knuckles where they rested against the bar. Feather-light again... no more than a graze.

But the wolf stilled. His golden eyes snapped up, fire and confusion both sparking there. He didn't pull away. Not yet.

"Threads," Malachi murmured, voice curling velvet-soft. "Catch easy, don't they?"

Rafe's jaw tightened. His glass rattled faintly against the wood. But he didn't break the contact. Couldn't.

Elara's breath caught, fury and something hotter tangling in her chest. "Stop."

Malachi leaned back at last, hands spread in mock surrender, grin wicked as sin. "As you wish, love." But the spark he'd left between them lingered, humming sharp as iron in the silence.