For the rest of the day, I’m a woman possessed. I knead dough until my arms ache, chop apples until my fingers sting from juice. I pour all my shaky heart into a batch of turnovers—flaky crust stuffed with spiced apple and brown sugar, little leaf cutouts on top that I carve just to keep busy.
I line them up on the cooling rack, golden and beautiful, the whole bakery smelling like the best kind of autumn memory.
Then I stand at the window. And I wait.
Evening drips slow into night. Lanterns come on in town, little glowing specks strung between buildings, warm laughterechoing faint from the cider hall. I tell myself he’ll come by. He always does—stomping up the steps with his gruff little grunts, acting like he’s there to check the porch railing when really he just wants to hover by the counter while I pretend not to notice how his eyes follow my every move.
But tonight, the path stays empty. No broad shadow between the apple trees. No low, familiar voice rumbling my name.
Eventually I take the tray of turnovers and pack them into a little basket lined with a cloth I embroidered last spring. I mean to march them straight up the forest trail, knock on his door, demand he eat something warm and sweet even if he doesn’t want to look at me.
But I only get as far as the orchard gate. There, under the heavy branches, I stop. Stand for a long time, breath fogging in the cool night air.
Then I turn around, basket still in hand, and go back inside.
When I finally crawl into bed, the house feels emptier than it ever has. I press my face into my pillow, clutching it tight, whispering out a small, shaky truth that gets swallowed by the dark.
“I don’t want it to be pretend anymore. I want it all to be real. Even if it does break me.”
And I think, somewhere out in the quiet, the orchard hears me. The leaves shiver, the branches whisper. But the man I want more than anything doesn’t come.
CHAPTER 20
THORNAK
I’ve always been a solitary bastard. Comes easy when you’re built like I am, big enough to block the sun if I stand just right. Folk learn quick to keep their distance—most days, that suited me fine. Even out here, where the trees do more talking than people ever could, I never felt much lonely.
But now the silence bites.
The forest around my cabin’s dressed in its full autumn glory, leaves blazing gold and ember-red before dropping like confetti across my yard. Squirrels skitter through the underbrush, little brown tails flicking, and birds chatter overhead. It should feel peaceful. Instead it feels like the whole damned wood is watching me, waiting for me to stop being a stubborn fool.
I don’t. I stay inside most days, nursing the last of the fire through the mornings, carving half-finished scraps I never intend to give away. Anything to occupy my hands so they don’t remember what it was like to hold her—soft waist under my palms, delicate fingers threaded through mine, her heart racing just as hard as mine when she’d curl against my side at night.
I tell myself I’m doing right by her. That by staying away, I’m sparing her worse down the line. Because all those bright looks she gives me? They’ll fade. One day she’ll wake up, realize I’mnothing but rough bark and scar tissue, and she’ll mourn the years wasted before she goes chasing something safer, shinier. Better.
I’d rather cut that wound early—while it’s still shallow enough she can stitch it up with a bit of pie dough and laughter.
But it doesn’t sit easy.
Especially not on the day of the orchard festival.
I hadn’t planned to go anywhere near it. Even packed up my tools at dawn, marched deeper into the timberline with the excuse of hunting storm-split branches. But by afternoon, my feet betray me, dragging me down the ridge until I’m close enough to hear the music—pipes and fiddles winding through the trees like bright little spirits.
Curiosity, that old traitor, pulls me closer. I stop just beyond the last stand of oaks where I’ve got a clear view of the clearing. Lanterns bob on strings overhead, casting everything in soft honey light. Booths line the walk, dwarves hawking spice bread, elves selling filigree jewelry that glints even in the dusk.
And there she is.
Maddie’s laughing with a cluster of village women, her curls piled up in a loose knot that’s already tumbling free. She’s wearing a dress I haven’t seen—rust red with tiny gold leaves stitched at the hem—and it suits her so well my chest tightens painfully.
She turns to one of the stalls, sampling a piece of sugared nut brittle, and for just a heartbeat the bright mask slips. Her smile goes small, soft, almost sad. She glances sideways—toward the shadows where I’m hidden—and for a terrifying instant I think she sees me.
Then her friend Liora loops an arm through hers, pulling her back into the swirl of festival noise, and Maddie’s grin pops back into place. A touch too bright, if you know what to look for. And gods, do I ever.
I stand there rooted like one of the ancient trees, hands curled into fists. Part of me wants to storm right in—scoop her up, press my mouth to that little freckled nose, promise I’ll try to be enough for her if she’ll just let me.
But I don’t. Because the other part of me—older, meaner, scarred deep—says it would only make it worse when she changes her mind. When she starts to wonder why she ever tied her heart to something that looks more at home with an axe in his grip than a bouquet.
I turn back for home as the sun sets, the lanterns behind me blurring in my eyes. By the time I reach my cabin, the world’s gone dark enough that I nearly trip over the loose stone at the path’s edge. I curse under my breath, shove inside, and slam the door hard enough to rattle the latch.
