Chapter 13 #2
I can’t give him my heart again. He’s proven what he’ll do with it.
This man walking beside me isn’t the Alder I knew six months ago.
He’s still dangerous, still devastating in that tailored-suit kind of way—but there’s a new edge to him now.
An ache beneath the armor that makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe…
the storybook ending I swore I didn’t believe in is walking right beside me.
And that’s what terrifies me most of all.
When we finally reach the coop, I’m almost grateful for the distraction. The soft clucking of hens drifts on the breeze, mingling with the earthy scent of hay and feathers.
Alder strides ahead and opens the narrow wooden door with a flourish before bowing dramatically. “Ladies first.”
I roll my eyes. “Chivalry isn’t dead, it just smells like chickens.” I duck inside, brushing past the weather worn frame and into a surprisingly elegant space.
The floor crunches beneath my feet, straw layered thick over flagstones. Sunlight streams through leaded glass windows, scattering jeweled light across the carved mahogany beams overhead. Nesting boxes, crafted from dark wood and decorated with silver inlays, line the walls in neat rows.
It’s the fanciest henhouse I’ve ever seen.
Even the hens look expensive. Their feathers shine like polished copper and gold, and one of them hops onto a stool with the same energy as a disapproving headmistress. She eyes me like I’ve broken the dress code and lets out a sharp cluck before pecking the hem of my borrowed dress in protest.
But I’m not thinking about chickens. Not really. I’m still back in the gardens, his voice echoing through me.
I think I was waiting for something—or someone—to show me where to go next.
Was he talking about me?
The Alder I knew didn’t wait for anyone. He didn’t follow maps—he bought the damn compass company and charted his own course. But today, he wasn’t leading. He was listening. And maybe that’s what unsettles me more than anything.
I’m so deep in my own thoughts about him, about us, about everything that I don’t notice the bold hen at my feet until it’s too late. My foot lands squarely on her claw.
The hen lets out an ear-piercing squawk, her wings flapping wildly against my legs like she’s trying to take flight.
“Ah! I’m sorry—” I stumble back, arms flailing as I try to regain my balance. My slipper catches the edge of a small stool, and it topples over with a loud clatter, sending a basket of corn kernels and chicken feed flying.
Cue full-blown poultry pandemonium.
Feathers fill the air. Hens shriek like they’ve just heard the sky is falling. Beady little eyes glare at me as they scramble for the scattered feed.
“Gemma!” Alder calls, his voice rich with laughter.
“I didn’t mean to!” I shout back, trying to sidestep the hens that are now darting around my feet, pecking at the ground with alarming determination.
He chuckles as he moves closer, his hands up like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “Hold still!”
“Hold still?” I squeal, flinching as one particularly aggressive hen flaps past my shoulder, nearly hitting me in the face. “They’re everywhere!”
“They’re chickens,” he says, still laughing. “They’re not going to hurt you.”
“Easy for you to say!” I snap, hopping on one foot as another hen pecks near my ankle. “You’re not being attacked!”
One pecks my ankle. I squeal and spin, tripping again, and before I know it, my feet tangle together. With a startled yelp, I go down, landing flat on my butt in the middle of the henhouse.
Alder’s laughter is full-bodied now, the kind that doubles him over. He crouches beside me, grinning like the absolute menace he is. “Are you okay, Your Majesty of the Coop?”
I blow at the feathers floating in front of my face, huffing when one stubbornly sticks to my cheek. “Oh, you’re hilarious,” I grumble, brushing at my straw and feather tangled hair. “I swear, if you call me the Mother of Hens, I’m throwing feed at your face.”
“You’ve become their queen.” He leans forward and plucks a feather from my shoulder. “It’s majestic.”
I lunge for a handful of the scattered kernels, but he catches my wrist with a warm, gentle grip—and just like that, the world slows. The flurry of feathers fades. The ridiculousness of it all slips out of focus.
He’s close, his hand holding mine, his fingers brushing a feather from my cheek. “You’ve got something…”
His thumb lingers next to my mouth, and the warmth of his touch makes my lungs squeeze. Our eyes lock. My heart forgets how to function properly.
This shouldn’t feel like a moment. Not here. Not covered in feathers and straw. But it does. It’s just him. Just me. Just us. The way his blue eyes soften. The way his grin melts into something quieter, something that makes my chest ache.
I inhale, slow and shaky, and the scent of hay and sunlight fills my lungs, grounding me in a space that feels too surreal to be anything but. His thumb brushes my jaw ever so slightly before he leans in. My lips part, my breathing shallow.
But then a hen flutters up behind us, squawking indignantly as it lands on the tipped-over stool.
The spell breaks.
Alder pulls his hand away, the absence of his touch making the air between us cold. I jerk back and scramble to my feet.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, cheeks flaming.
He rises too, extending his hand to me with a playful tilt of his head. I pointedly ignore it, brushing off my skirt instead, bits of straw and feathers floating to the ground.
“I don’t need your help.”
“You sure?” he teases. “Although, you do wear chicken feathers well.”
“Get back to your egg collecting duties, Lord Lockhart.”
I glance at him as he moves past me. The light streaming through the windows catches in his golden hair and softens his angles until they’re almost tender. My heart gives a small, unexpected flutter.
The hens, now happily pecking at the scattered feed, pay us no mind as we gather the eggs we came for. We work in silence for a while—well, mostly silence. He hums. Loudly. Off-key. I try not to smile. And fail.
With the basket full, I squeeze through the narrow doorway, glad for the cool breeze on my flushed face. Behind me, Alder turns to the hens with a sweeping, exaggerated bow.
“Ladies,” he says solemnly. “Your service has not gone unnoticed.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m charming,” he corrects.
I tilt my head. “Completely unrealistic.”
He ducks under the doorframe. Well, he tries to. His broad shoulders catch with a solid thunk.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Little help?” he grunts.
I stop in my tracks, staring at him before the realization sinks in. “Wait…are you actually stuck?”
“No,” he says, immediately followed by a resigned, “Yes.”
I slap a hand over my mouth, laughter bubbling out anyway. “Oh my God, this is…this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s deeply funny. Like, tears-streaming-down-my-face funny.”
He shifts, trying to twist himself free, but the movement only wedges him in tighter. The side of his shirt rides up, flashing a sliver of tan skin, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a comment I’ll regret.
He groans theatrically. “This might be it for me, Gemma. I’ve lived a good life. Tell my story. Tell them I died heroically.”
“In a henhouse?”
“With honor,” he insists.
“I’ll be sure to have a plaque made and hung on this very coop, and we’ll host an annual memorial egg hunt.”
He grunts again, shifting his weight. “Careful. Mocking a helpless man is bad luck.”
I scoff. “Says the one percenter who spies on people for a living and is now stuck in a doorway.”
“Alright, new plan. You pull, I push.”
“Perfect.” I set the basket down and grab his outstretched hand.
We tug. We twist. We accomplish absolutely nothing.
“I think the hens are judging you,” I say between laughs.
“They’ve turned,” he deadpans. “I can feel it. Any minute now, they’re going to start pecking for blood.”
I yank harder. “Stop talking and wiggle!”
“I am wiggling!” he shouts, but he’s laughing now too—really laughing. The sound of it does something to me. Loosens a screw that’s been wound tight since the moment I landed back in South Carolina.
Finally, with a grunt and one last tug, he pops free, stumbling into the sunlight with a dramatic gasp for air like he just escaped the underworld.
He brushes himself off with wounded pride. “That was graceful.”
“Graceful in the way a baby giraffe is graceful, sure.”
He places a hand over his heart and bows deeply. “Thank you, Lady Gemma. You’ve saved me from a poultry-related demise. I am, henceforth, your humble servant.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t film that for the village TikTok.”
His grins softens, warmer, less performative. His eyes find mine. The air between us changes, tightening with a new kind of awareness. He steps closer and reaches out, plucking a feather from my shoulder like it’s a thread of silk.
“You’re shedding.”
And just like that, my laughter stumbles. My chest tightens. Because it’s not just a feather. It’s the way he’s looking at me. The way his touch lingers. The way my pulse trips and my knees soften.
My chuckle is thinner now. Tense at the edges. “If I start clucking, take me out back and put me down.”
“I don’t do mercy killings.” His lips twitch. “But I’d absolutely build you a luxury coop.”
“Oh good,” I mutter. “A girl can never have too much real estate.”
I pick up the basket again, but he takes it from me and hooks it over his forearm.
We head back toward the castle in silence, the waterfall’s roar rising to greet us. I sneak a glance at him. Mist clings to the golden strands of his hair, making him look like he belongs in a painting or on the cover of one of the very smutty books piled on my nightstand.
He’s quiet now, thoughtful.
Which is almost worse than the flirting.
When he’s not performing, not teasing or smirking or turning everything into a punchline…when he’s just walking beside me like this—warm and solid and not being a total ass—it’s easy to forget all the reasons I’ve kept my walls up.
As we round the last bend, the castle’s towering silhouette slices into the sky. A flicker of movement in one of the high windows catches my eye—just a shift of shadow, maybe, but enough to make me pause. I pause and glance over to see if Alder noticed.
He has. His stride falters, sharp blue eyes narrowing as they lock on the same window. He stops suddenly, tense and calculating. With an exhale, he turns to me and thrusts the egg basket into my arms.
“What—?”
Before I can finish, he takes my free hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses a kiss to my palm. The gesture is light, but it sparks like static down my spine.
“I should return to those very important council meetings you’re so fond of bringing up,” he says, his voice low, his breath warm against my skin. “If anyone asks, tell them I was detained by chickens and a woman who looks far too good in a borrowed dress.”
I open my mouth—no idea what I planned to say—but the moment disappears as his fingers brush against mine one last time.
And then he walks away. His long strides carry him toward another part of the castle. He doesn’t look back.
I hate how much I want him to.
I stand there like a lovesick girl holding a basket of eggs, watching his broad frame disappear through an archway, the dim light swallowing him whole.
Even then, I don’t move.
Because I want more.
More of that smile. More of the way he slips into my space like he’s always belonged there. More of the man who kisses my hand like it’s sacred and looks at me like I’m something he’s not ready to let go of.
I want more of Alder Hawke in every way that’s ever mattered.
And for the first time in all the years I’ve known him, I think he might actually be ready to give it to me.