Chapter 4
She tastes like wine and honey.
The memory of their kiss kept replaying through Thallos's head as he escorted Marigold back into town, the ghost of her lips burning against his.
It had been barely a kiss. A brush. A suggestion.
And yet his heart was pounding like he'd just sprinted the length of his vineyard, and there was heat spreading through his chest that had nothing to do with the wine he'd been sampling.
*Idiot,* he thought savagely. *You absolute idiot.*
The walk to town was an exercise in exquisite torture.
True to her word, she kept three feet between them at all times.
She walked with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes fixed on the road ahead, and every time he accidentally closed the distance, she sped up.
His hooves drummed against the asphalt in a steady rhythm, counterpoint to the softer sound of her footsteps.
"Can I ask you something?" he ventured.
"You can ask."
*That's not a yes,* he noted. But it wasn't quite a no, either.
"Why did you agree to be co-chair? I've seen the way you react when people talk to you at council meetings. You hate being noticed. You hate being the center of attention. So why take on a role that puts you directly in the spotlight?"
She didn't answer for so long that he thought she wouldn't.
"Ellie cornered me," she said finally. "I couldn't figure out how to say no without making a scene."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
Fair enough. The last thing he wanted to do was to push her.
"You're not what I expected," she said suddenly, and he gave her a surprised look.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone more…" She trailed off, searching for the word. "Aggressive, maybe. Someone who would have pushed back when I said no."
The twist in his gut returned, sharper this time. "Is that what you're used to?"
"I'm not used to anything." Her voice had gone flat. "I'm just saying you're not what I expected."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"I haven't decided yet."
He smiled despite himself. "I'll take it."
The rest of the trip was conducted in silence.
Even Main Street seemed unusually deserted, with most of the stores already closed.
When they reached her shop, he followed her down the alley to the side door.
A trellis climbed the side of the building, an elaborate wooden framework covered in climbing roses and jasmine.
The flowers were closed for the evening, their blooms furled tight, but even so, he could feel the life thrumming through them.
The vines were healthy, well-tended, practically vibrating with potential.
"This is me," she said, turning to face him. The distance she'd maintained had closed slightly, maybe two feet now instead of three, but she still held herself like a woman ready to bolt. "Thank you for walking me back."
"Thank you for letting me."
She nodded, a quick jerk of her chin, and reached for the door that presumably led to her apartment entrance.
He should let her go. He should say goodnight, walk home, pour himself a drink, and try very hard not to think about the way she'd tasted. Wine and honey.
Instead, he found himself stepping toward the trellis.
"You grew all this yourself?" he asked, reaching out to brush his fingers along one of the rose vines.
She paused, her hand on the door. "Yes. Right after I took… Right after I moved in."
"It's beautiful."
"Thank you."
His hand moved almost without his permission, his fingers trailing along the length of the vine.
He could feel the life in it, the dormant energy waiting to be released.
The magic that lived in his blood—the same magic that made his vineyard flourish, that coaxed impossible harvests from stubborn soil—stirred in response.
*Show her,* something whispered. *Show her what you can do.*
It was a risk. He knew that. Some humans reacted badly to monster magic, especially when it was unexpected. But she wasn't some humans. She was a woman who had dedicated her life to growing things, to coaxing beauty from soil and seed. If anyone would understand…
He let the magic flow. Just a trickle, really, a suggestion rather than a command. He breathed warmth into the vine, encouraged the sap to rise, whispered to the tightly furled buds that it was safe to open.
The first rose bloomed within seconds.
Then another. And another. The jasmine followed, white stars unfurling along the trellis in a cascade that released a wave of sweetness into the evening air. Within moments, the entire side of the building had transformed from spring potential to full summer glory.
He turned to look at her.
She had stopped moving. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked completely unguarded. There was genuine, unfiltered wonder in her face and something else that made his breath catch.
"How did you—" She stepped closer, reaching out to touch one of the roses. "That's not possible. They weren't anywhere close to blooming. I checked them this morning."
"Satyr magic." He shrugged, trying for casual despite the way his heart was hammering. "We have an affinity for growing things. Especially vines."
"You can just… make flowers bloom?"
"Sometimes. If the plant is willing." He moved closer to her, drawn by the astonishment in her eyes. "They wanted to bloom for you. I just gave them permission."
She was staring at him now, really staring, her careful walls momentarily forgotten. The jasmine-scented air wrapped around them both, and the roses glowed pale pink in the fading light, and she was so close, so impossibly close—
He reached out to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. It was an impulse, pure and simple, the same impulse that had driven him to make the flowers bloom. He wanted to see her react to his touch the way the vines had reacted to his magic.
Instead, she flinched backwards. The wonder vanished from her face, replaced by something harder. Her walls slammed back into place so fast he could almost hear them.
"Goodnight, Thallos," she said, and her voice was steady, controlled, and utterly without warmth.
"Marigold—"
"Thank you for walking me home. I'll see you at the next committee meeting."
She was gone before he could respond, disappearing through the doorway with quick, purposeful steps. He stood alone in the flower-scented darkness, staring at the trellis he'd brought to life.
*You pushed too fast,* he told himself. *Again. You always push too fast.*
But even as he berated himself, even as he turned and began the walk back to his vineyard, he couldn't quite regret it. Because he'd seen her face when the flowers bloomed. He'd seen the wonder, the delight, the brief and precious moment when she'd forgotten to be afraid.
She was worth waiting for.
She was worth being patient for.
The walk home felt shorter than the walk into town, despite the growing darkness. His hooves found the road without guidance, following the familiar path while his mind wandered elsewhere.
He thought about the way she'd softened during the wine tasting, her careful critiques giving way to genuine appreciation. He thought about the flash of real interest in her eyes when he'd mentioned his mother, the way she'd said you can tell me as though she actually meant it.
He thought about the way she'd tasted.
*Wine and honey,* his memory supplied helpfully. And something else. Something he couldn't quite identify. Something that made him want to chase it, to catalogue it, and to spend hours exploring every variation.
He was in trouble. Deep, profound, probably irreversible trouble.
The vineyard appeared ahead, its neat rows silver-touched by the rising moon.
Home. Safety. The place where he was supposed to be able to think clearly, away from distractions.
But as he passed between the first rows of vines, as his hand trailed automatically along the leaves, he knew that thinking clearly was no longer an option.
Marigold Bloom had gotten under his skin.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that she didn't even seem to want to be there.
He didn't go inside right away.
Instead, he walked through the vineyard, letting the familiar rhythm of the vines soothe his churning thoughts.
The Riesling his mother had planted. The Pinot Noir he'd grafted himself, three years ago, using techniques he'd learned from a particularly surly old winemaker in Sonoma.
The experimental rows near the eastern edge where he was trying to develop something entirely new.
His magic hummed beneath his skin, responding to the life around him. He could feel every vine, every leaf, every grape beginning to swell toward ripeness. The vineyard was healthy. Thriving. A living testament to his family's legacy and his own dedication.
And yet.
He paused at the edge of the main lawn, looking out over the space that would soon host the Summer Dance Festival. The space where he would see Marigold again, probably multiple times, as they worked through the logistics of the event.
*She pulled away,* he reminded himself. *Twice. She doesn't want what I'm offering.*
But that wasn't quite true, was it? She'd kissed him back, even if only for a moment. She'd let herself be impressed by the flowers. And underneath all her careful distance, he'd glimpsed something that looked an awful lot like longing.
The question was: longing for what?
For connection? For touch? For someone to break through her walls? He didn't know. But he found himself wanting to find out. He found himself wanting, quite badly, to be the one she let in.
*Patience,* he told himself as he finally turned toward the house. She's not a vine you can coax into blooming with a touch. She's a person with her own timeline, her own wounds, her own reasons for caution.
He would wait.