I cut her off with a sharp shake of my head. “Don’t start that. I’m not lookin’ for praise. Just seemed right that they’d have something to hold on to, that’s all.”
For a heartbeat she just stands there, breath shallow, eyes bright. Then with a tiny, strangled noise she launches herself at me—arms wrapping tight around my neck, face burying in the crook of my shoulder. I stand there stiff as a felled pine, hands hovering like I’ve forgotten what to do with them.
Then her voice comes, muffled and thick. “You don’t get it, do you? You keep thinking you’re this big, rough monster. But you’re more kind than half the ‘civilized’ men in this town put together.”
I huff out something halfway between a grunt and a scoff, though it catches painfully in my throat. “Reckless woman, you’ve got the strangest way of seeing the world.”
“And maybe you need someone to,” she says, leaning back just enough to look up at me, her hands still curled into the back of my shirt like she can’t quite make herself let go.
Before I can brace for it—she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to mine.
It’s not like that desperate, greedy tumble we shared on her little bed, when the storm outside roared and I thought for sure I’d break in half from wanting her. This is slower, sweeter somehow, though it still lights something low in my gut that’s half pleasure, half panic.
Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of caramel glaze, and her nose bumps my tusk so gently it makes me shiver. I stand there rooted like an oak, every instinct roaring to pull her closer, to deepen it until we’re both gasping.
But then her hand slips up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing over the scar that cuts across my jaw, and I nearly flinch. I’m used to people recoiling from those marks, not caressing them like they’re something worth learning by heart.
When she finally pulls back, there’s flour smudged along my lower tusk and probably all over my mouth. Maddie lets out this half-laugh, half-sob, eyes crinkling.
“You’ve got—oh stars, here—” she fusses with her apron, dabs at me with a corner of it, though her hands are shaking.
“Leave it,” I growl, catching her wrist in my hand. I don’t let go.
We stand there like fools, her pressed up against me, my thumb idly stroking over the flutter of her pulse at her wrist. I want to say something—about last night, about how I still taste her in every breath, about how I woke up this morning with her name tangled on my tongue. But the words won’t come.
Seems they won’t come for her either, because she just tips her forehead forward to rest against my chest with a long sigh.
After that, it’s like some fragile dam breaks between us. We don’t talk about the night we stayed together, the hours I spent with my hands on every inch of her, the sounds she made that still echo in my skull. But we can’t stoptouching.
That evening, she sits me down at the little prep table behind the bakery, humming while she rolls out dough. Every so often she reaches out without looking—just finds my hand where it’s resting on my knee and squeezes. I grumble, half-hearted, but don’t pull away.
When she spills flour on her cheek, I swipe it off with my thumb. When she tests a caramel, she presses it straight to my lips without asking, eyes dancing as I grunt and nearly burn my tongue.
Later, I linger at the door longer than makes sense. Maddie stands there in the threshold, hands twisted in her apron, looking up at me with that dangerous softness that cuts deeper than any blade.
“Walk you home?” she asks, voice light, like she’s not sure if it’s too much.
“Don’t need escorting,” I mutter. But when she laughs, something warm unwinds in my chest.
“Maybe I do,” she says.
So I grunt, tip my head, and let her fall into step beside me.
And that’s how it keeps going. We pretend it’s still just a clever arrangement—some contract with neat clauses and careful exit points—but the truth is bleeding out all over the damned place. It’s in the way she reaches for me without thinking, the way I hover near her like a moth that can’t stop circling its flame.
And every time I close my eyes, all I see is that look on her face when she discovered the little carved badger, like I’d just handed her the world and hadn’t meant to.
CHAPTER 17
MADDIE
It starts off like one of those bright, golden mornings where I can convince myself everything in the world is exactly as it should be. I’ve got dough rising on the counter, sweet cider simmering low on the stove with clove and orange peel, and I’m humming under my breath while dusting flour off my skirts. Even the orchard outside seems to be basking, sun dappling through the last of the autumn leaves, dancing across the porch like little coins.
I keep replaying the way Thornak looked at me yesterday behind the bakery, that soft, almost startled sort of ache in his eyes when I kissed him. The memory’s so warm it’s got me half-floating around the kitchen, half-plotting a ridiculous orchard supper to celebrate the last big harvest. I tell myself it’s for the villagers, for the business, for theengagement contract,but deep down, I know exactly who I want to see laughing under lantern light, cider on his lips.
I’m just about to poke my head into the front shop to see if Liora’s arrived when the door chimes. I brighten instantly, thinking it’s probably her—only to stop short when I see who’s striding in with a grin that used to melt me clean through.
Tavien.
