Chapter 3
Sam
Equinox eve was in full swing, and everything smelled like wood smoke, damp earth, and essential oils.
Callie was glowing.
Not in a mystical, spiritual way. She was literally glowing from the light of the lanterns strung through the trees, her crazy auburn curls catching in the flickering light.
She stood beneath a massive oak, laughing at something, her whole body tilted toward someone in that way people do when they’re fully invested.
It took me a second too long to realize who had her attention.
A dark-haired girl—early twenties with a shy, nervous smile—stood with her, twisting the hem of her oversized sweater. The kind of girl who wrote poetry in the margins of library books and probably had a favorite tree.
And just like that, it all clicked.
Oh.
I’d always figured Callie didn’t have time for a serious boyfriend.
No wonder her awkward first dates never went any further.
Callie had never shared this side of herself with me, but by insisting I join her out here in the middle of nowhere, she was trusting me with her real self. Something weird and warm expanded in my chest, a mix of profound gratitude and secondhand happiness.
This was no cult situation, and the energy of the equinox wasn’t the thing keeping her here. It was this girl—this soft, attentive person who looked at Callie like she was something rare and interesting and maybe a little unreal.
They deserved to find each other. To be happy. And I wanted that for them so hard my heart ached.
I looked away, scanning the crowd before I could get too sentimental.
And then I realized that I was searching, too.
No.
Not gonna happen.
I was most definitely not looking for that Faelan guy. I refused to start mooning over a big, arrogant jerk of a cult member. And yet, when I didn’t see him, disappointment crept in before I could stop it. I scowled and focused on the far more pressing issue at hand—hunger.
There was a golden, perfect loaf of sourdough on the communal table, right next to a little dish of soft butter. No doubt the very sourdough Callie had promised was heaven, or nirvana, or some other out-of-the-body experience.
I wanted it.
Badly.
Unfortunately, something was standing between me and the prize. And that something was Randy.
The bathrobed “elder” was planted in front of the potluck spread, hands raised, attempting to wrangle the suburban cultists into something resembling a ritual.
“Everyone, focus,” he announced. “We need to align ourselves with the cosmic forces at play here.”
He waited for a dramatic pause that never landed because two people near the fire were deep in conversation about which probiotic was best for gut health.
Randy plowed on ahead. “This is a sacred night—”
“Should we pass the chips first?” someone asked, motioning toward the table.
“No, Larry, we should not pass the chips! We should be grounding ourselves in the divine energies of—”
Whatever divine energies he was trying to conjure, they were absolutely not happening.
People were either too relaxed, too distracted, or too tipsy to take any of it seriously.
And while Randy was losing his audience, I was losing my patience.
The sourdough was right there, but the last thing I wanted was to get pulled into whatever long-winded woo-woo lecture was happening next.
I took a slow step back.
Then another.
And then I was backing right into the bushes, slipping out of sight.
The night pressed close outside the fire’s reach, and the trees stretched high above me.
The air smelled damp and rich. The way forests always do after dark, I thought.
But really, how would I know? And I was already thinking that the living moss wall I’d installed in the last skyscraper my firm designed could never hope to smell like this. Not with all the misting in the world.
A patch of bushes sat just ahead, just visible by moonlight. Thick leaves covered the branches, weighed down by heavy clusters of berries. They looked ripe enough to burst.
My stomach clenched with sharp, insistent hunger.
Not just “I could eat” hunger, but “I could eat that entire loaf of bread myself” hunger.
The promised sourdough was still out of reach, tangled in ceremony and delays.
But here—just a few steps away—nature had provided.
Sure, they were only berries. But they’d be enough to keep my blood sugar from tanking completely.
I reached out and picked one from the bush. But as my fingers made contact, a huge hand closed around my wrist.
My breath caught hard.
The grip wasn’t tight, but it was unmistakable—firm, steady, and impossibly strong. Without even turning, I knew exactly who it was.
A shiver ran through me that was most definitely not fear.
Faelan was right there beside me. He seemed even bigger now that we were up close and personal, and his green eyes managed to catch what little light there was.
“Those will kill you,” he said.
So much for a charming introduction.
His voice was calm, but something about it sent a thrill down my spine. He didn’t let go.
And I didn’t pull away.
I swallowed, glancing at the berries. “…good to know.”
His grip loosened, but he made no move to step back. His thumb traced the inside of my wrist before his fingers slid away, slow and deliberate, and I hated that my pulse jumped at the absence of his touch.
“Follow me,” he said.
My throat felt tight. But my body had already made the decision before my brain caught up, because of course I followed him. “This is the part where I remind myself you might be an axe murderer,” I said.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. Holy smokes, he was handsome. “Would that stop you?”
Probably not.
The stilted revelry behind us faded. No more voices, no more awkward drumming—just the quiet hum of insects and the rustle of leaves shifting in the breeze.
Faelan moved easily through the dark for such a massive guy. I picked my way over roots and uneven ground, half-heartedly trying to convince myself he was leading me to my inevitable murder. But mostly I was watching the broad line of his shoulders as he led the way.
No wonder this guy was arrogant, I thought.
He belonged in the woods in a way no one else here did.
Not Callie, not Randy, not the overly sincere tech bros or the disillusioned professionals searching for meaning.
Faelan moved like the trees had grown to accommodate him and the night shifted to let him pass.
As I ogled, he paused near a patch of low, scraggly bushes. Even by the scant moonlight, it was obvious its berries were not only smaller, but entirely picked over.
He reached down and plucked one from a stem.
“If the birds won’t touch them, neither should you.”
That thing Callie had said about him making you feel stupid was no exaggeration. I hoped the low light hid the blush I now felt burning in my cheeks.
He stepped closer, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “Still think I’m an axe murderer?”
I swallowed.
“Jury’s out.”
Faelan raised the berry and peered at it in the moonlight. “These are fine eating.”
I hesitated. “Sure, you say that—”
He raised an eyebrow, then popped it in his mouth.
Okay. Fair point.
“There is a story,” he said. Each word hung in the air like an ember that refused to fade.
“Of course there is.”
He ignored that. “Once, a man loved a woman who didn’t return his feelings. The one she refused was strong and handsome, full of laughter and life. The one she chose instead was quiet and stern, nothing but shadow.”
He had an accent, I realized, as his story spun out. Just the faintest trace. Something that could’ve come from Glasgow or Sydney or even Idaho for all I knew. As if he weren’t already stupidly exotic.
“Whilst the dour man thrived, the shining man turned bitter. He took his grief and poured it into the earth, and shaped it into something beautiful and bright. A gift that would tempt. A gift that would linger on the tongue.”
His fingers found another berry, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Soon, the berry juice darkened his fingertips.
“But not all things beautiful are meant to be taken. The dour man ate the fruit…and left his love weeping over his still body.”
I swallowed, more from the weight of his voice than the berries.
Faelan reached for me.
Slow. Deliberate.
He brushed his thumb over my lower lip and painted it berry-sweet. The shock of it hit harder than the taste. A stranger—a complete stranger—was touching my mouth like he freaking owned it, and I just…stood there and let it happen.
I should have pulled back and demanded to know what in the hell he thought he was doing—but my breath caught, and my body refused to move. Reflexively, I followed his swipe with my tongue. Tart sweetness bloomed on my tastebuds.
But all I could focus on was him.