The sky cracks open just as I reach the Grove.
It’s that kind of summer storm that doesn’t announce itself until it’s too late—thunder rolling in like a slow drumbeat, wind rising out of nowhere. One minute, everything’s heavy with heat. The next, the forest is trembling.
And I’m soaked.
The rain hits in thick sheets, no warning, no mercy. I pull my hood up, already halfway down the trail, heart thudding.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, squinting through the blur, “not ideal.”
The garden behind me is half-covered, but the Grove isn’t. I should go back. Ishould.
But I don’t.
Because even with Thorn’s silence, even with that aching gap he’s carved between us—I can’t seem to stop coming back here.
Ineedto be here.
The air is charged. Not just from the storm, but something underneath it. Something alive and restless.
I press forward through the curtain of water, into the trees.
“Thorn?” I call.
No answer.
Of course there isn’t.
The wind howls. Lightning cuts the sky.
And then I slip.
My foot hits a patch of slick moss, and I go down hard—knee, hip, elbow. Mud splashes up my side, cold and thick. My bag tumbles from my shoulder.
“Damn it?—”
The words stick in my throat as the thunder booms directly above me.
The Grove groans.
Branches sway violently. Leaves whip across my face. Something ancient stirs beneath the earth, like the forest itself is bracing.
He’s there.
Rising out of the rain like part of the storm.
Thorn.
Soaked to the bone, vines clinging to his limbs, eyes glowing faintly even in the downpour.
“Clara,” he says, low and urgent.
I scramble to my feet, slipping again.
He catches me.
Big hands, steady. Warm, even in the cold. His grip around my arm is firm, grounding.
“I—I didn’t mean to get stuck—” I stammer.
