Chapter 8
She tasted like summer. Like honey and wildflowers and desire. Thallos drank it in, lost in the sensation of her mouth moving against his, her fingers tangled in his hair, her body pressed so close he could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through both their shirts.
*Finally.*
The word echoed through him like a struck bell. He'd wanted this since the moment he'd seen her hunched in the corner of that committee meeting, trying so hard to disappear. He'd dreamed about it, imagined it, tormented himself with the possibility of it. And now—
Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, and he made a sound that would have embarrassed him if he'd had the capacity for embarrassment left. But there was nothing left. Nothing but her, and this, and the desperate need to get closer still.
He found the curve of her waist and traced upwards along her spine, feeling her shiver in response.
She was so responsive. Every touch drew something from her—a gasp, a sigh, a shift of her body against his that drove him half-mad with want.
His cock pressed urgently against his sheath but some small remnant of restraint kept it under control.
*Careful,* some distant part of his brain warned. *Don't push. Don't rush. She's like a wild thing—startle her and she'll bolt.*
His mouth left hers to trace along her jaw, down the column of her throat, finding the spot where her pulse hammered beneath soft skin. She tilted her head back, giving him access, and the trust in that gesture made something fierce and protective surge through his chest.
"Marigold." Her name came out ragged.
"Don't stop." The words were barely a whisper. "Please don't—"
He kissed her again before she could finish. Slower this time. Deeper. Trying to pour everything he felt into the press of lips and the slide of tongues. *I see you. I want you. I'm not going anywhere.*
Her fingers slid from his hair to his shoulders, gripping hard enough to leave marks. He hoped she did. He hoped he'd have bruises tomorrow that he could press and remember. Proof that this was real, that she'd wanted him, that for one perfect moment she'd stopped running and chosen to stay.
And then she pulled away.
He felt the loss like an actual physical pain. His arms were suddenly empty, his mouth bereft, his whole body screaming at him to close the distance she'd created.
He didn't.
He stood very still, breathing hard, watching as she retreated two steps. Three. Her hand came up to touch her lips—swollen now, flushed with color—and he had to close his eyes against the sight.
*Let her go. Let her choose.*
"I—" Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, tried again. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't."
Her eyes went wide.
"Don't apologize," he said, softer now. "Don't take it back. Whatever happens next, don't stand there and tell me you regret that."
The flush in her cheeks deepened. Rose pink spread down her throat and disappeared beneath the collar of her dress. He wanted to chase it with his mouth. He wanted to map every inch of skin until he knew her body better than his own.
He stayed where he was.
"I don't regret it," she said finally. The words came out small and reluctant. Like they were being dragged from somewhere deep. "That's the problem."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Because—" She made a frustrated sound, running her hands through her hair in a gesture that was rapidly becoming familiar. "Because I'm not… I don't do this. I don't just… kiss people. After knowing them for a week."
"Technically it's been closer to two weeks."
"That's not the point!"
"What is the point?"
She stared at him, mouth working like she couldn't decide which objection to voice first. He watched her cycle through them—the fear, the doubt, the carefully constructed walls she was trying so desperately to rebuild.
*Don't let her,* his instincts urged. *Don't let her run again.*
But he'd meant what he said. He wouldn't hurt her. And pushing now, when she was so clearly overwhelmed, would do exactly that.
So instead of closing the distance between them, he let out a long breath and deliberately relaxed his shoulders. He forced his hands to unclench and gave her the space her body language was screaming for.
"Okay," he said.
She blinked. "Okay?"
"You need time. Space. I understand." He managed something that might have been a smile. "I'm patient."
"You're…" She trailed off, looking at him like he'd grown a second head. "You're not going to… argue? Push? Tell me I'm being ridiculous?"
"Are you being ridiculous?"
"Probably."
"Then you don't need me to tell you." He shrugged, a gesture that cost him more than he'd ever admit. "You're smart, little flower. Careful. You don't trust easily. I'd be an idiot to expect one kiss—"
"Two kisses."
"—two kisses to change that." He held her gaze. "So we'll finish the paperwork. And you can pretend this didn't happen, if that's what you need."
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or disappointment.
*Interesting.*
"What if I don't want to pretend it didn't happen?"
The words landed between them like dropped glass, and his pulse jumped. "Then we figure out what you do want. At whatever pace works for you."
She was quiet for a long moment, studying him with those green eyes that saw too much and revealed too little. He let her look. He let her search for whatever evidence she needed that he was lying, that this was a trick, that he'd turn out to be exactly what she expected.
He hoped she didn't find it.
"The paperwork," she said finally. "We should… we should finish the paperwork."
"We should."
Neither of them moved.
A breeze drifted into the cabin, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the distant sweetness of ripening grapes. Somewhere in the trees, a bird called—once, twice—then fell silent.
"Thallos?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you." She said it quietly, almost grudgingly, like the words cost her something. "For not… pushing."
"I told you. I'm patient."
The ghost of a smile crossed her face. "That must be new."
"What?"
"Patience." She gestured vaguely at him. "You don't seem like the patient type."
"I'm not." He let himself smile back. "You're just worth waiting for."
The flush returned to her cheeks. She turned away quickly, focusing on the paperwork again. He watched her for a moment, thinking about how much she already looked like she belonged in his cabin.
*Dangerous thoughts,* he warned himself. *She's not mine yet.*
But she could be. The kiss had proven that much. Underneath all her walls and her fears and her determination to keep him at arm's length, there was something real. Something that responded to him. Something that wanted this just as badly as he did.
He just had to be patient.
He turned his attention to the applications as well, and tried not to think about the taste of honey still lingering on his lips.
The paperwork took longer than it should have.
Partly because there was a lot of it—vendor applications, permit forms, budget spreadsheets, equipment rental quotes. Partly because she had opinions about everything and wasn't shy about sharing them, which he found charming even when it meant redoing his carefully organized logistics.
And partly because he kept getting distracted.
Every time she leaned forward to point at something on a document, her hair would swing across her shoulder. Every time she tapped her pen against the table while thinking, his eyes would drift to her mouth. Every time she looked up at him, caught him watching, and quickly looked away—
*Focus,* he told himself. *I'm supposed to be demonstrating patience. Patience does not involve staring at her like a lovesick adolescent.*
"What about music?" She was shuffling through the entertainment applications again. "The folk band is good, but I think we need something more. Something that fits the atmosphere."
"I could play."
The words were out before he could stop them.
She gave him a surprised look. "You play?"
"I play the fiddle." He kept his voice casual, like it didn't matter, like the thought of performing again didn't make his chest tight with equal parts longing and fear. "I used to, anyway. Before I focused on the vineyard."
"You never mentioned that."
"It never came up."
She was studying him now with that too-perceptive gaze. "Would you want to? Play at the festival, I mean?"
*No.* The answer was immediate and visceral. The last time he'd performed in public—the last time he'd let himself be vulnerable that way—
He pushed the memory down.
"Maybe for the opening," he said. "After we have the opening dance."
"Wait." Her pen stopped mid-tap. "What do you mean, *we* have the opening dance?"
"The opening ceremony." He watched her expression shift from confusion to dawning horror. "The co-chairs lead the first dance. You didn't know?"
"I was nominated without my consent!" Her voice rose an octave. "No one told me there would be dancing!"
"It's traditional—"
"I don't dance."
"Everyone dances."
"I don't." She said it with such finality that he almost believed her. "I have two left feet. Three, possibly. I once stepped on someone's foot so hard at a wedding that they had to leave early. There was an ice pack involved."
His lips twitched. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
"It was worse. The bride was furious. She's still not speaking to me."
"The bride?"
"I stepped on her brother." She dropped her head into her hands.
"Oh god. I can't dance at the festival. I'll humiliate myself.
I'll humiliate you. The whole town will be watching and I'll trip over your hooves and knock you into the punch bowl and it'll be the most embarrassing moment of my entire—"
"Marigold."
She looked up.
"Breathe."
She breathed. Shakily, but she breathed.
"I can teach you," he said.
"You can't possibly—"
"I grew up dancing. I could practically dance before I could walk.
My mother used to joke that I came out of the womb doing a jig.
" He leaned back in his chair, watching her panic slowly subside.
"We don't have to do anything complicated for the opening dance.
Some simple steps, a basic pattern. You just need practice. "
"Practice."
"With me. Teaching you." He kept his tone light, ignoring the way his pulse had picked up at the thought. "I promise to keep my hooves well out of range."
She stared at him. "You want to give me dance lessons."
"I want to make sure you don't knock me into the punch bowl. It would be very undignified."
A short, surprised laugh escaped her, like she hadn't meant to let it out. He filed the sound away, adding it to his growing collection of things he wanted to hear again.
"And where exactly would these lessons take place?" She raised an eyebrow. "Your cabin living room isn't exactly a ballroom."
"The grove."
"The grove?"
"A natural clearing just across the creek. Flat. Private. No one to watch you stumble." *Except me,* he didn't add. *And I'll watch every move you make and count myself the luckiest satyr in three counties.*
"Thallos…"
"There's another reason." He hesitated, weighing how much to tell her.
The full truth—that the grove was sacred, that his family had performed rituals there for generations, that bringing her there for something as intimate as dancing felt like offering her a piece of his soul—seemed like too much. Too fast.
But a half-truth could work.
"The acoustics," he said. "Sound carries differently there. It would be a good place to practice my music as well."
She was quiet for a moment. He watched her weigh the options, watched her careful mind calculate risks and benefits. He knew that she was thinking about being alone with him, in that grove, learning to move together because he was thinking it too.
The difference was, he wanted her to say yes.
"When?" she asked finally.
"Tomorrow evening? After the shop closes. The light is best around sunset."
"That's…" She shook her head. "That's almost romantic. You know that, right?"
"Is that a problem?"
Their eyes met. Held.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Ask me tomorrow."
It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either.
He smiled.
"I'll bring the wine."
She left an hour later, a folder of paperwork tucked under her arm, and an expression on her face that he couldn't quite read. He watched her drive away until the dust from her tires had settled and the sound of her engine faded into silence, then turned back to his empty cabin.
It felt larger now. Quieter.
He crossed to the window, looking out towards the grove.
The trees were visible from here, dark shapes against the evening sky.
The oaks had been there for hundreds of years, steeped in magic long before they'd come to this land.
His mother had danced among them, bare feet on sacred ground, celebrating cycles and seasons and the endless turning of the world.
And now Marigold would dance there too.
*She doesn't know,* he thought. *She doesn't know what it means to be invited there. What I'm offering.*
Maybe that was better. Maybe letting her discover it gradually, letting her feel the magic of the place before he explained it, would be easier than dropping the full weight of his heritage on her shoulders.
Or maybe he was just afraid.
*Patience,* he reminded himself. *I promised her patience.*
But as he stood there watching the last light fade from the sky, he couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out. He wanted her. He wanted her with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And after feeling her in his arms and tasting her on his lips, he knew she wanted him too.
The question was whether she'd let herself have what she wanted, what they both wanted.
Or whether she'd burn it all down before either of them got the chance.