Loud and bubbling and completely unfiltered.
The vines nearest us bloom.
Thorn blinks slowly at the sudden wave of color, then glances at me with something very close to curiosity.
“You did that,” he says.
“No,” I say between laughs. “That was all you.”
But it wasn’t.
The Grove is responding again, alive and playful and warm in a way that makes something shift behind my ribs.
We sit together near the half-wild garden, sunlight bleeding gold through the canopy above. He begins weaving a vine through his fingers, murmuring words I can’t catch. The strand twists and bends in a slow, elegant dance.
I go quiet.
Not because I feel awkward.
Because I can’t stop watching his hands.
The way they move—steady, fluid, sure—it’s like watching wind thread through the trees. There’s no hesitation. Just rhythm. Grace.
He notices me watching, but doesn’t call it out.
And I don’t look away.
CHAPTER 10
THORN
She’s watching my hands again.
Clara sits cross-legged in the moss, elbows on her knees, head tilted just slightly. Her eyes follow the twining of the vine as I braid it through my fingers, whispering an old forest spell that makes the leaves shimmer silver for a moment before fading.
She laughs softly. “It’s like knitting, but with more…sentience.”
I grunt. “Knitting doesn’t bite if you insult it.”
“Speak for yourself,” she says, grinning.
The Grove pulses around us, quiet and warm. Content.
I should not be.
But I am.
She doesn’t ask for more stories. Not today. She justishere, and that’s what makes it dangerous. Her presence, soft as it is, pushes at walls I’ve held up for centuries. Makes me feel something other than stillness.
Which is why I speak.
“I wasn’t born,” I say suddenly.
She looks up. “What?”
“I was grown.”
Her eyes search my face. “Like… literally?”
