Chapter 11 #3
He circles me once, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his fur, then tears across the clearing and leaps over a fallen log with joyful energy that makes me laugh despite myself.
“You are huge,” I say, my voice full of wonder.
The Wolf barks once, a sound that echoes across the clearing and probably announces our presence to every creature within a mile radius.
I spread the blanket on the grass and sit while he races across the meadow again, kicking up leaves and dirt behind him like he’s celebrating his freedom. He’s beautiful in motion, all power and grace and wild joy.
After a few minutes he trots back toward me, tongue lolling out in what can only be described as a doggy grin.
The Wolf shimmers, and for just a moment I can see both forms overlapping, Wolf and man existing in the same space.
A second later Maceo is sitting on the blanket again.
Very naked, and holy hell, this man is not real.
I clap my hands over my eyes.
“You could have warned me about this part too.”
“I thought you were curious,” he says, clearly amused by my predicament.
“I was curious about the Wolf,” I mutter into my palms. “Not your naked ass.”
I hear leaves shifting and fabric rustling as he moves around the clearing, presumably retrieving his scattered clothing.
“You can open your eyes,” he says after what feels like an eternity.
I do not move.
“You promise you are wearing pants?”
There is a quiet zipper sound.
“I promise.”
Slowly, cautiously, I peek through my fingers.
Maceo stands a few feet away pulling his shirt back over his head. His jeans are already on, though he has clearly skipped the boots for now, his bare feet somehow making him look more approachable.
I lower my hands. “You are ridiculous.”
“Yet you came hiking with me.”
“You smile at me and I lose my ability to think rationally,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Hmm.” The sound is pleased, satisfied.
He walks back toward me and drops down onto the blanket in front of me, bracing one hand against the grass.
The movement brings him closer until he is kneeling in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, smell the scent of pine and something wild that clings to his skin.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The forest around us is quiet except for the whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze and the distant call of a hawk somewhere overhead.
“You are not scared,” he says, and there’s something like wonder in his voice.
“I told you I wouldn’t be.”
“You jumped when the squirrel moved.”
“That was a tactical reaction to an unexpected wildlife encounter.”
His mouth curves into a slow smile, the kind that starts small and spreads until it transforms his entire face, erasing the guarded edge he usually carries.
Then, without hesitation, he leans forward and kisses me.
It is not hesitant or questioning. It is warm and steady and entirely certain of itself, like he’s been thinking about doing this since the moment he knocked on my door, maybe even before that.
His lips are firm, confident, moving against mine with a quiet intensity that makes my pulse hum beneath my skin.
For a second, my brain short-circuits, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the way his body radiates warmth even through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Then instinct takes over, and I kiss him back, my hand coming up to rest against his chest. Beneath my palm, his heartbeat thrums strong and steady, a rhythm that matches the sudden rush of blood in my veins.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to touch something wild, something untamed but choosing, just for this moment, to be gentle.
The forest around us fades into a blur of sensation.
The air smells like sunlight, dying leaves and pine needles, sharp and sweet and alive.
His hand settles lightly at the back of my neck, his fingers warm against my skin, calloused in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
It feels like it belongs there, like he’s known exactly where to touch me all along.
When he pulls away, it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s reluctant to break the connection. His breath is warm against my lips, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he exhales, a quiet sound that might be amusement or something deeper, and the corner of his mouth quirks up again.
I lean back on my hands, my fingers curling into the blanket beneath me, grounding myself in the rough texture of the fabric. My lips tingle where his mouth met mine, and I can still feel the ghost of his touch at the nape of my neck, like he’s left an imprint there.
“You do not hesitate,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Maceo tilts his head slightly, studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His gaze lingers on my mouth, then flicks back up to meet my eyes. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something that makes my chest tighten.
“Should I have?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.
I shake my head, surprised by my own certainty. “No,” I admit, my fingers brushing against my collarbone like I can still feel the heat of his hand there. “I think that might actually be good for me.”
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, and he shifts closer, his knee brushing against mine. The contact sends a jolt through me, sharp and electric. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to something darker, richer. “Because I don’t plan on stopping.”
He leans in and brushes his lips against mine once more, then studies my face for a moment longer before leaning back onto his heels, giving me space to breathe and think and remember that we supposedly came here for lunch.
After a moment he reaches for the picnic basket with hands that are perfectly steady.
“You know,” he says, opening it with practiced efficiency, “we hiked all this way for food.”
I laugh softly, some of the tension leaving my shoulders. My body feels suddenly boneless, like I’m dissolving from the inside out, every nerve ending still tingling from his touch. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he’s managed to turn me from a functioning adult into whatever this is.
“That does sound like something we should address before I pass out from hunger.”
He pulls out sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a container of fresh fruit that looks like it came from someone’s private orchard, a bag of homemade cookies, and two glass bottles of what looks like fresh lemonade.
Everything is arranged with the kind of care that suggests he put actual thought into this picnic rather than just grabbing whatever was available.
We sit together on the blanket while the afternoon stretches lazily around us, eating in comfortable silence punctuated by occasional conversation about the food, the view, the way the light falls across the distant hills.
The forest moves quietly around us. Leaves drift through the clearing on invisible currents. Somewhere in the distance a bird calls, and another answers. The sun is warm on my face, and the blanket is soft beneath me, and for the first time in days my mind feels still.
I sit there beside him, sunlight warming the grass, and let everything settle.
Somehow, these three men have slipped past every defense I thought I had.
It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t calculated.
It was their simple, persistent presence.
Through showing up when I needed them most, through seeing me in ways I’ve never been seen before, through making me feel like I might actually be worth choosing.
I think about Maceo’s hands on my face just minutes ago, the way he kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. The careful way he packed this picnic, the thoughtfulness in every detail, the way he looks at me like I’m something precious he’s been waiting his whole life to find.
Ezra in the shop yesterday, his hands gentle as he helped me understand the flow of magic through the town’s infrastructure. The way he looked at me like I was a fascinating puzzle he was honored to help solve.
Lucien standing in his doorway two days ago, looking at me like we are already a foregone conclusion and the rest of us simply have not caught up yet.
Something inside my chest shifts quietly into place.
I cannot pretend I do not feel it anymore.
All of it.
The pull toward each of them, different but equally real. The way my magic responds to their presence, settling and strengthening in ways I never expected. The way Ruby Springs feels like home in a way nowhere else ever has.
Maybe that makes me selfish.
Maybe it makes me reckless.
Maybe it makes me exactly what this town has been waiting for.
Sitting here in the quiet of the forest with the picnic basket between us and the whole afternoon stretched out ahead, I realize something that feels both terrifying and wonderful.
There is no world where I walk away from this town.
There is definitely no world where I walk away from them.