“You live here, in the Wood King’s court. But you aren’t a shiftling.” She nodded towards his normal-shaped shadow stretching across the floorboards.
He lowered the spoon. “I’m human,” he said stiffly. “Like you.”
“Then how did you become the king’s tithe collector?”
Quiet, he studied her. His walls were going up, those gray eyes turning cold and wary.
Before he could withdraw completely, Emeline took another sip of moonshine—to give her courage—and slid down from the counter. She walked over to the stove and pressed the jar into his hand.
“I saved you from a dragon yesterday, Hawthorne Fell. You could at least answer my question.”
His gaze trailed over her, leaving her skin warm in its wake. Taking the moonshine, he brought it to his lips and tipped it back, taking a long swallow. Returning the jar to her hand, he wiped his mouth on his wrist. “I’m no one. Trust me.”
But I don’t trust you.
He’d been keeping secrets from the start.
Hawthorne turned back to the tomatoes, which were starting to blacken. “I’m almost done here,” he said, as if the topic was closed. “And then we can work on the next song.”
Letting him evade her—for now—Emeline lifted herself back onto the counter, considering him as he added the tomatoes and some fresh basil and salt to the pot.
“Here,” he said after a long while. Dipping the spoon into the soup, he cupped his hand beneath it as he walked over towhere she sat on the counter. He blew on it softly, cooling it for her as he stepped between her knees.
At his closeness, all of Emeline’s senses came alert. He was pressed against the counter, his hips wedged between her legs. If she scooted forward a few inches, her body would be flush with his.
Her heart kicked.
He lifted the spoon to her mouth. “Tell me if you like it.”
She opened for him. He put the roasted tomato soup on her tongue, watching her lips close over the spoon.
Mmm,it was good. His soup tasted like comfort and warmth. Like being bundled up in blankets next to a blazing fire on cold winter days, watching the snow fall outside.
She looked up to find Hawthorne staring at her mouth. Like soup was the last thing on his mind.
Heat sparked between them. The moonshine hummed in Emeline’s blood. It made the room beyond them soften, putting him alone into sharp focus. She’d drank too much too quickly, on too empty a stomach, and now her blood was turning to fire.
It made her reckless.
“Let’s play a game,” she whispered.
Hawthorne’s mouth curved. Setting down the spoon, he braced his hands on the edge of the countertop, gripping it on either side of her. “What did you have in mind?”
She tipped her head back against the cupboard, gazing up at him. “I ask a question, and if you refuse to answer, you take a swallow.” She pointed to the mason jar. “Then we switch.”
He considered her for a moment, as if sensing the folly of such a game. But he didn’t step away. Only leaned in closer, his gaze hungry. “All right. You start.”
He betrays you in the end!Claw’s voice hissed in her mind.
Emeline didn’t know how to reconcile that young man—the one she first met in the woods, the one Claw warned heragainst—with this one. Someone who liked to read, and kept his house cozy, and made his guests soup from scratch.
It was as if the rope he’d secured her with at the aerie was still looped around her waist and he was tugging on it. Pulling her towards him.
Maybe Claw’s wrong.
But even if he was wrong, Hawthorne still took Pa and lied about it. Which was, indirectly, the reason she was stuck here. And if she couldn’t get a message to Joel, Hawthorne would be—indirectly—the reason her music career crashed and burned.
“Why won’t you deliver my message?” she asked as he frowned. “I don’t think you understand—”
