Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~9 min read
The neutral ground turned out to be a coffee shop.
Sage stood across the street, staring at the cheerful blue awning and the people inside drinking lattes like the world wasn’t ending, and wondered if the Council was actually trying to kill them through sheer irony.
Meet at Common Grounds, 2pm, the message had said. Neutral territory. Public space to prevent “incidents.”
As if coffee and witnesses would stop two witches from killing each other if they really wanted to.
Sage checked her phone. 1:58pm.
She could still leave. Could tell the Council this was impossible, that they needed to pair her with literally anyone else. She was a researcher, a botanist. She worked with plants and old texts and quiet magic.
Thorne Blackwood was a weapon.
Her phone buzzed.
Iris: You’ve got this. Remember—family first. Even if that means not hexing him immediately.
Iris: Immediately might be too strong. Give it at least five minutes.
Despite everything, Sage smiled.
Then she straightened her spine, adjusted the canvas bag on her shoulder—filled with notebooks and research materials and absolutely no defensive charms, thank you very much—and crossed the street.
The coffee shop smelled like cinnamon and espresso. Soft indie music played overhead. A couple sat in the corner, sharing a pastry. A student typed away at a laptop by the window.
Normal. Peaceful.
And in the back corner booth, looking completely out of place, sat Thorne Blackwood.
Sage’s breath caught.
He was bigger than she’d expected. Not just tall—she’d known that from seeing him at the Council—but broad-shouldered, taking up space in a way that made the cozy coffee shop feel small. He wore all black: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket slung over the back of the booth. Silver rings glinted on his fingers. Some kind of runic design.
Magical focuses, Sage realized. He was wearing his magic like armor.
His eyes lifted as she approached, and the impact of his direct gaze nearly stopped her in her tracks.
Dark green. Sharp. Assessing her like a threat.
Fair, considering she was doing the same.
“Mitchell,” he said flatly.
“Blackwood,” she replied, sliding into the booth across from him.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other.
Up close, he was unfairly attractive. Sage hated that she noticed. Hated the way her pulse kicked up, the way her magic hummed in response to his. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that looked carved from stone, dark hair that fell across his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it.
He looked exhausted. And furious.
Join the club, she thought.
“So,” Thorne said finally, his voice low and rough. “This is hell.”
“The coffee’s not that bad.”
His eyes narrowed. “I meant being forced to work with a Mitchell.”
“Right. Because working with a Thorne is such a joy for me.”
“At least I’m not plotting to curse your entire family.”
Sage’s magic flared, hot and sharp. The plant on the windowsill behind Thorne’s head grew three inches in two seconds, leaves unfurling aggressively.
Thorne noticed. His hand moved to one of his rings.
“Careful,” Sage said quietly. “Neutral ground, remember?”
“You started it.”
“You accused my family of murder.”
“Your family has been trying to destroy mine for a hundred years.”
“That’s rich coming from a Thorne,” Sage shot back. “You killed my great-great-grandmother.”
“Your great-great-grandmother tried to steal our ancestral grimoire!”
“That’s a lie!”
“Everything Mitchells say is a lie!”
“You don’t even know us!”
“I know enough!”
They were both leaning across the table now, close enough that Sage could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell something sharp and clean like winter air and cedar.
Her magic wanted to reach for his.
She yanked it back like touching fire.
Thorne jerked backward at the same moment, his expression flickering with something that looked almost like confusion.
They stared at each other, breathing hard.
“This isn’t going to work,” Thorne said finally.
“Agreed.”
“We should tell the Council to reassign us.”
“Absolutely.”
Neither of them moved.
Because the truth hung between them, unspoken but undeniable: there was no one else. The Council had been clear. These partnerships were based on magical compatibility.
Which meant—somehow, impossibly—she and Thorne Blackwood were compatible.
The thought made Sage want to throw up.
Or throw something at him.
Maybe both.
“Fine,” she said, pulling her notebook from her bag with more force than necessary. “If we’re stuck together, we might as well establish ground rules.”
“Rules.” Thorne leaned back, arms crossed. “Like what?”
“Like we focus on the curse. Only the curse. No bringing up family history, no fighting about the feud, no—”
“No pretending our families aren’t enemies?”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Sage said sharply. “I’m trying to keep people alive. Including members of your family, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Something shifted in his expression. Still guarded, still hostile, but… softer. Barely.
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said quietly. “My cousin died four days ago. She was nineteen.”
Sage’s anger deflated slightly. “My cousin was twenty-three.”
They looked at each other, and for just a moment, the animosity faded into something else. Something that looked a lot like shared grief.
Thorne cleared his throat, looking away. “What do you know about bloodline curses?”
Sage pulled herself together, flipping open her notebook. Business. Research. This she could do.
“Not much,” she admitted. “They’re rare. Require massive amounts of power and specific knowledge of the targeted family’s magical signature. Usually need a personal connection to the bloodline—hair, blood, something intimate.”
“Someone’s been stealing from both our covens,” Thorne said. “Has to be. There’s no other way to get that kind of access.”
“Unless…” Sage hesitated.
“Unless what?”
“Unless whoever cast this curse has access to both bloodlines naturally.”
Thorne’s eyes sharpened. “You think it’s someone from one of our families?”
“I think we can’t rule it out.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and she could practically see him reassessing. Like maybe—maybe—she wasn’t completely incompetent.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “We start by researching similar curses. Historical records. See if there’s precedent.”
“I’ll check the Mitchell archives,” Sage offered. “We have texts going back three hundred years.”
“Thorne archives go back four hundred. I’ll look there.”
“And then we compare notes. See if there’s overlap.”
“Agreed.”
They looked at each other, something almost like understanding forming in the space between them.
It lasted approximately three seconds.
The coffee shop door chimed, and a group of twenty-somethings walked in, laughing and loud. One of them bumped Sage’s chair.
“Sorry,” the girl said cheerfully.
“It’s fine,” Sage started to say, but Thorne was already on his feet, positioning himself between Sage and the group, his hand on that ring again.
Everyone froze.
“What the hell, man?” one of the guys said.
Thorne stared at him with enough intensity that the guy actually took a step back.
“Blackwood,” Sage hissed. “Stand down.”
He didn’t move.
“They’re human,” she said. “They’re not a threat.”
Slowly—too slowly—Thorne stepped back. But he didn’t sit down. Didn’t stop watching the group until they’d collected their drinks and left.
The student with the laptop was staring at them.
“Protective much?” Sage said, trying for casual and landing somewhere around bewildered.
Thorne sat down, not meeting her eyes. “Habit.”
“That was more than habit. That was…” She trailed off as understanding hit. “You thought they were going to attack me.”
“I thought they might be working for whoever cursed us.”
“In a coffee shop. In broad daylight.”
“Curses make people desperate.” His jaw tightened. “And you’re a target. The threatening text you got proves that.”
Sage blinked. “How do you know about that?”
“Council briefing. They told all the pairs about threats against their partners.” He finally looked at her, and his expression was unreadable. “My job is to keep you alive long enough to break this curse. Hard to do that if someone hexes you in a coffee shop.”
“I can protect myself.”
“Can you?” He gestured to her bag. “You didn’t even bring defensive charms.”
“I brought research materials. You know, for the actual work we’re supposed to be doing?”
“Research won’t help if you’re dead.”
“Neither will paranoia.”
They glared at each other.
But underneath the anger, Sage felt something else. Something uncomfortable and unwelcome.
He’d protected her. Instinctively. Without thinking.
Like it mattered if she lived or died.
Thorne must have seen something in her face because his expression shuttered completely. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he said coldly. “I’d protect anyone I was assigned to work with.”
“Of course.”
“You’re not special.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
Sage shoved her notebook back in her bag. “I’ll research the archives and send you my findings. We can meet again next week. Same place.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
She stood. He stood.
For a moment, they were close again. Close enough that Sage’s magic reached toward his like flowers to sun, close enough that she could see his pupils dilate, could feel the air between them charge with something that definitely wasn’t hatred.
Sage stepped back fast.
“See you next week, Blackwood.”
“Mitchell.”
She walked out of the coffee shop without looking back, her heart hammering and her magic unsettled in a way she’d never felt before.
This was going to be a disaster.
But as she climbed into her car and caught sight of Thorne through the window—still standing there, still watching her like he couldn’t quite figure her out—she couldn’t shake the feeling that disaster might be the least of her problems.
Because enemies didn’t protect each other in coffee shops.
And they definitely didn’t make her pulse race like this.
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