Chapter One: A Storm of Desire
The night crackled with sorcery and feelings.
Molly Carpenter stood with her back against the ancient stone wall of the ruined chapel, breath coming fast, magic still sizzling in the air like an over-microwaved burrito. She was alive. Harry was alive. It had been a close thing. Too close. And now he was looking at her with that look—the one that made her knees feel like jelly and her brain feel like it had been set on fire by an overenthusiastic wizard (not that she knew any of those personally).
"You shouldn't have done that," he said, stepping toward her, voice rough with concern. And rain. And emotion.
Molly's pulse skipped. "You needed me."
His jaw tightened, his five o'clock shadow and the wet hair plastered to his forehead making him look somewhere between "charmingly roguish" and "a really pissed-off raccoon."
"I need you safe," he growled. A low, husky rasp that could have been worry. Could have been frustration. Could have been something else.
The rain dripped off his duster in slow, heavy drops. His broad shoulders were right there. And Molly knew, without a doubt, that this moment was the hinge upon which everything would turn.
She lifted her chin, heart hammering. "You always tell me to take risks. To trust myself."
Harry exhaled through his nose. Hard. Then, as if reaching some terrible, inevitable conclusion, he closed the distance between them. His hands tangled in her hair, and then—
Magic. Kissing. Electricity.
His mouth was hot, desperate, the tension between them snapping like a downed power line, and—
—And at this point, Karrin Murphy snapped the book shut so hard it nearly took her fingers off.
Chapter Two: The Consequences of Poor Life Choices
Murphy stared at the small leather-bound journal in front of her and took a long, measured breath through her nose.
She had not meant to read it.
It had been sitting open. Right there. Practically radiating guilt at her from Molly's desk in Harry's workshop. She had glanced at a few words and then, somehow, against all reason, had kept going.
And now she had seen things.
Things she could never unsee.
Oh, God.
What the hell was she supposed to do? Pretend she hadn't seen it? Confront Molly? Launch herself into the sun?
The door creaked open.
Murphy looked up and locked eyes with Molly, who was humming to herself, juggling a handful of spell components, and generally looking like someone who had no idea that her entire world was about to collapse in on itself like a dying star.
Then Molly saw the journal.
And Murphy.
And the way Murphy wasn't making eye contact.
Molly paled, her hands going stiff. "Oh my God."
Murphy opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No words emerged.
"You—Murphy—you didn't—"
"I—" Murphy began, a woman on the verge of a lot of regrets.
Molly made a strangled, high-pitched noise, her eyes shimmering with horror. Then she bolted.
"Shit!" Murphy swore, leaping to her feet. "Molly, wait—"
She tore out after her, just in time to barrel straight into Harry Dresden, who had appeared in the doorway with a bag of groceries in one hand and a deeply confused expression on his face.
"What the hell?" he asked, watching Molly flee like her life depended on it, and Murphy try to decide whether chasing her would be better or worse than collapsing into the sidewalk.
Murphy groaned. "Don't ask."
Later, at the Carpenter Household
Harry stood in the kitchen, arms folded, mentally replaying every bad decision he had ever made and coming to the realization that this was probably one of the top five, and he didn't even know why yet.
Molly sat at the table, clutching the journal to her chest like it was a flotation device and she had been thrown overboard. Murphy was sitting next to her, face set in an expression that suggested she was seriously contemplating faking her own death.
Michael, too calm, was trying to mediate. "Molly is growing up," he was saying, all gentle fatherly patience. "She's learning to process emotions. That's natural."
Charity, across from him, looked deeply unamused.
"Michael," she said, slow and deliberate, as if trying to explain to him that their daughter had, in fact, written a breathless romance novel starring Harry Dresden.
Harry, for his part, was experiencing the very rare and deeply unwelcome sensation of his brain trying to escape his own skull.
"Uh," he said. "Just for the record, I had no idea any of this existed until about twenty minutes ago."
Molly made a noise like she wanted to melt into the floor and die.
Murphy let out a long, suffering sigh and rubbed her temples. "Molly, I am so sorry. I wasn't snooping—I found it by accident, and I shouldn't have read it. That was wrong. I feel awful."
Molly peeked up from behind her fingers. "You read all of it?"
Murphy turned red. "…Enough."
Michael pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking slightly in a way that suggested he was holding back laughter. Charity looked ready to call down righteous fire upon them all.
Harry cleared his throat. "So, uh… what was this supposed to be, exactly?"
Molly sighed dramatically, still looking like she wanted to die. "It was just…a writing exercise. I didn't mean for anyone to see it."
Charity still looked deeply skeptical.
Michael, however, smiled warmly at Molly, giving her a reassuring pat on the hand. "Then perhaps we can all agree this is something best left in the realm of fiction?"
Molly nodded. Vigorously.
Harry exhaled, relieved. "Great. In that case, I'm gonna pretend this never happened."
Murphy nodded, equally relieved. "Same."
Molly still looked like she was contemplating yeeting herself into another plane of existence, but she managed, "Thanks."
The tension in the room slowly began to ease.
Later, Back at the Workshop, Where Bob Remains a Problem
"So, boss," Bob began, entirely too gleeful, "I got a little peek at—"
"No," Harry interrupted flatly, pointing at the skull. "Just this once, lay off my apprentice."
Bob let out an exaggerated sigh. "You never let me have any fun."
Harry groaned and flopped into his chair. "You have plenty of fun. You're just not getting this one."
Bob muttered, but for once, went silent.
Harry closed his eyes and tried, very, very hard, to not think about whatever the hell had been in that journal.