Chapter 20
Elodie
I wake early, anxiety clawing at my throat. I’m not entirely sure if I’ve even slept, especially after the heated exchange with Rowan in the glasshouse.
Screw it, I need to check if the seed has grown.
Slipping out of bed, I tug on some shorts and a long top before slowly checking the main sitting area.
The room is completely dark, the only light seeping in from the moon high in the sky.
I tiptoe towards the door, stopping when the floorboards creak.
Wincing as I check Rowan’s door before continuing towards my exit.
“Did you skip the section on stealth attacks, Hawthorne?” Rowan’s voice causes me to lose my balance, my hand landing on my chest as I breathe heavily to catch my breath.
“Or did you assume my ‘frustration’ had made me go deaf?” he smirks at me, crossing his arms in front of him.
With a heavy sigh of defeat, I tilt my head at him.
“I didn’t expect you to be sitting in the dark like a creep,” I whisper.
“I didn’t expect you to try to sneak out in the middle of the night. Where are you going, Elodie?” he asks me, his tone sincere. There’s no use in hiding anything.
He would find me either way.
He always finds me.
“I was going to the glasshouse. I need to know if my third attempt worked or not. I can’t sleep. The pressure from the king now, it’s too much.” I fold my arms around myself, the cold of the room hitting me at once. Rowan stands, grabbing the cloak from the back of the door and handing it to me.
“Let’s go,” he says. I follow him out the door, praying that whatever I find down in that soil is positive.
The night is dark, darker than I’m used to.
As we exit the castle, I hear the distant sound of rain echoing onto the stone floor.
Pulling the hood over me, we speed up our movements.
It doesn’t take us long to get here. The orbs of light still glow brightly inside the glass walls.
I turn to Rowan, struggling to hide the obvious anxiety on my face.
He nods once before taking a seat at the workbench, rubbing his hand over his jaw.
I head over to the soil bed, wiping my hands on my trousers before crouching down in front of it.
I tell myself not to rush it, that impatience kills more plants than neglect.
But my hands are already shaking as I brush the top layer of soil aside.
There’s…nothing. I lean closer, heart thudding, fingertips careful as I dig a fraction deeper, willing the seed to be cracked, split, anything.
There is only cold earth. My breath stutters as I dig again, faster now, no longer careful, my actions turning desperate.
Soil spills over the edges of the bed, dark and useless.
I find the seed at last, intact, whole, and completely untouched. It should have split by now. Nothing.
“No,” I whisper. I let out a sound that isn’t quite a sob but is raw with every emotion running through me.
“No, no, no—” My voice breaks as I stagger back, knocking into the bench. Tools clatter to the floor, glass shattering somewhere behind me, but I don’t care. My knees sink to the floor as I sag into my hands.
“I did everything,” I say aloud, voice wild now, echoing too loudly in the glasshouse.
“I did everything!” My hands fist my hair.
The words tear out of me, ugly and desperate.
I kick at the soil, sending dirt flying everywhere.
Sweeping my arm across the notes on the bench, I send pots crashing to the ground as soil explodes across the stone floor.
Rowan says my name, but I can’t hear him.
“I can’t do this,” I choke. “I can’t save this stupid kingdom, your butterflies or even Kael. I can’t do it!” My chest tightens, breath coming in sharp gasps. I shove myself to my feet and bolt for the door, flinging it open hard enough that it rattles the glass.
The rain hits me instantly, cold and relentless, soaking through my clothes in seconds. I stumble into the garden and scream. A raw and broken sound torn straight from my chest. It isn’t just for the seed.
It’s for every time I was told to wait, be patient. Every time I was almost good enough.
I scream for the girl who learned early how to make herself smaller so she wouldn’t be a problem.
For Sam watching me fight for space, for taking the shit that Mark has thrown at me for years.
For the girl who apologises for everything and everyone.
Look where it got me.
“I tried,” I sob, voice breaking. I press my palms to the ground as if it might hold me together. The rain soaks me through, plastering my clothes to my skin. Footsteps splash behind me.
I don’t turn.
I know it’s him, but I feel completely empty.
“Don’t,” I say, voice shredded. “Don’t tell me I can do this. I have nothing left to give.” His hands come to my face, warm and steady, forcing me to look up at him.
Rain streams down his jaw.
His eyes dark with something broken open.
“Don’t say that,” he shouts through the rain, his voice torn.
“Don’t tell me you have nothing left.” I shake my head, but he grips my cheeks more firmly.
“I’ve watched you make yourself the smallest person in every room, watched you apologise to people like the failures are yours to carry,” he says, his eyes full of emotion.
“You don’t get to decide you’re empty. I was wrong when I said you haven’t saved shit, Elodie.” He kneels on the floor with me now, facing me, his hands still holding my face.
“You saved me.”
Something snaps inside me at his confession, and I surge forward before I can think, before fear can catch up.
My mouth crashes to his, the kiss born of frustration and grief and wanting all tangled together.
I pull away briefly, but he grips my waist and pulls it flush against his body.
He looks at me with such longing that I want to just feel lost in him.
He looks like he’s holding something back before he growls,
“You say you have nothing left? Take it from me, then,” Letting out a rough breath, he presses his lips to mine, kissing me back.
It’s urgent, full of everything we’ve been swallowing down.
He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll collapse without him.
My fingers twist into the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer and grounding myself in the solid heat of him.
Rain pours over us, cold against the fire building between us.
We hold each other’s gaze, his eyes hooded and full of yearning.
Our mouths meet again, slower this time, his forehead rests against mine, breath ragged, unwilling to let the moment go.
His hands leave my face, sliding down my rain-slicked neck to my waist, his fingers digging into my hips with a bruising force that makes me gasp into his mouth.
He hooks his arm under my thighs and heaves me up, my legs instinctively locking around his waist. I’m a mess of soaked cotton and shivering skin, but the second he marches into the glasshouse, slamming the door shut, the cold vanishes.
He sets me down onto the edge of the wooden workbench, his body immediately slotting between my knees.
His hands are everywhere: my waist, my hair, the hem of my top.
His eyes are dark and hooded with a feral, unchecked starvation.
His gaze never leaves mine, as the snap of metal buckles echoes against the glass.
The heavy fabric of my overalls slumps, pooling at my waist, leaving only the thin, damp cotton of my camisole between his heat and my skin.
“You have no idea,” he growls, his voice a vibration that hums through my bones, “how many nights I’ve spent wanting to ruin you for anyone else, Hawthorne.”
He reaches out.
I don’t say a word, just reach for his shirt, my fingers frantic as I tug him back down into me.
His palm is flat against my stomach before his fingers slide beneath the damp lace of my underclothes. I let out a jagged breath, my back arching into his touch.
“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. He doesn’t go deep at first, his thumb circling me in a slow, agonising pressure. I reach for him on instinct, wanting more, but he catches my wrist, pinning it down to the bench.
“Eyes open, Hawthorne. I want to see you come undone for me.” He eases one finger inside me.
I’m already drenched, my body shamelessly weeping for him. His thumb never ceases that devastating rhythm of friction. My voice comes out in a broken moan.
He hooks his finger, finding a spot deep inside that sends a jolt of electricity straight through me.
“Rowan… please,” I choke out, my legs trembling over his arms.
“Not yet,” he whispers. He watches my face with a feral intensity, increasing the pace as his fingers slide in and out. The tension inside me coils tighter and tighter until I’m at breaking point.
“Come for me, Elodie.”
I shatter into pieces.
A violent hot wave of pleasure crashes over me, my back arching back as my head tips to the roof.
The tremors from my release are still echoing through my limbs when Rowan withdraws his fingers.
He steps back, hauling me off the bench as he guides me down onto the soft bags of mulch and peat stacked neatly on the floor.
“I think you have a lot more to give, Elodie,” he rasps.
Shifting his body, his knee parting my thighs with a blunt, heavy pressure.
Reaching down, he guides his length to my entrance, his expression physically painful as he trembles with restraint.
He doesn’t take it slow this time, driving into me with one deep, staggering thrust that buries him to the hilt.
My breath leaves my lungs in sharp moans as he fills me completely.
His body anchoring me, stitching my fragile soul back together with every inch of his body.
“Rowan,” I sob his name, my legs locking around his hips, pulling him in deeper. He moves with a relentless, driving rhythm. Each thrust for all the times we had come close to taking what we wanted.