Chapter 11
Her eyes opened without her permission.
Marigold hadn't meant to look—she'd been doing so well with them closed, feeling instead of thinking, letting her body follow his guidance without her brain getting in the way—but something had shifted. The quality of the silence. The texture of the air between them. And suddenly she needed to see.
Thallos was watching her.
Not her feet, not the space over her shoulder, not the strategic middle distance that polite dance partners maintained. He was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
"You opened your eyes," he said.
"So did you."
"Mine were never closed."
He'd been watching her this whole time. Through every stumble, every moment of vulnerability, every small surrender—he'd seen all of it.
She should have felt exposed. Uncomfortable. Violated, even.
Instead, heat pooled low in her belly.
"The dance is different now," she heard herself say. "Slower."
"Yes."
"Is that part of the lesson?"
His hand pressed more firmly against her lower back, drawing her infinitesimally closer. "If you want it to be."
*I want.*
The thought came unbidden, startling in its clarity.
She'd spent so long cataloging all the things she didn't want—didn't want her mother's chaos, didn't want to be fooled by charm, didn't want to fall for someone who would leave her broken—that she'd forgotten wanting could feel like this.
Clean. Simple. A hunger that had nothing to do with fear.
They weren't really waltzing anymore. The steps had dissolved into something slower, more intimate—a swaying that kept them pressed together, his thigh occasionally brushing against hers through the thin fabric of her dress.
"You're thinking again," he murmured.
"How can you tell?"
"You tense." His thumb traced a lazy arc across her spine, and she shivered. "Right here. Every time your brain starts working overtime, I feel it."
"Maybe I should think less."
"Maybe you should."
His voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper. She felt it more than heard it—a vibration in his chest where her body pressed against his.
The lanterns flickered overhead. The grove seemed to tighten around them, the ancient trees leaning in like curious spectators. She could smell him now—warm earth and wine and something wilder underneath, something that made her think of thunderstorms and growing things.
"Thallos."
"Marigold."
She loved the way he said her name. Like it meant something. Like she meant something.
His hand slid higher on her back, following the curve of her spine, and she arched into the touch without thinking. A small sound escaped her—half gasp, half something else—and his eyes darkened.
"Tell me to stop," he said, "and I will."
"I don't want you to stop."
The words hung in the space between them, impossible to take back. She watched his face—the flicker of surprise, the flare of hunger, the visible effort of restraint—and felt powerful for the first time in longer than she could remember.
*I did that,* she thought. *I made him look like that.*
"Marigold." Her name came out ragged. "You need to be sure."
"I'm sure."
"The grove—"
"I don't care about the grove." She tightened her fingers on his shoulder, feeling the muscles flex beneath her palm. "I care about this. About you. About—"
He kissed her.
Not like the teasing brush of lips in the tasting room, or the heated exploration in his cabin. This was something else entirely. This was thorough. This was a claiming. This was a male who had been holding himself back with an iron will and had finally, finally let go.
His hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her head back to give him better access. His tongue swept across her lower lip, seeking entry, and she opened for him with a moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest.
*Yes,* her body sang. *More.*
She'd forgotten they were supposed to be dancing. Her hands slid up to twine around his neck, pulling him closer. He was so tall—she had to rise on her toes to reach him properly—and one of his hands dropped to her hip to steady her, his fingers spreading wide across the curve of her body.
"You taste like honey," he murmured against her mouth.
"I haven't had any honey."
"I know." He kissed the corner of her lips. Her jaw. The soft skin beneath her ear. "That's how I know it's you."
She didn't understand what he meant, but the words washed over her like syrup, warm and sweet.
His lips found her pulse point and she gasped, her head falling back to give him access.
He took full advantage—kissing, licking, nipping at the sensitive skin of her throat while his hands roamed her back.
The grove seemed to pulse around them. The lantern light had taken on a golden quality, honeyed and thick, and the air smelled of night-blooming flowers she couldn't name.
She was distantly aware that something unusual was happening—something magical, something beyond the ordinary—but it felt right.
It felt like the world was finally aligning with what she wanted instead of fighting against her.
"More," she heard herself say. "Please, Thallos, more—"
He groaned against her neck. The sound vibrated through her, liquid heat spreading from the point of contact.
His hands grew bolder. One slid down to cup her ass, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her stomach. The other traced the neckline of her dress, his fingers dancing along the edge of the fabric, teasing but not quite touching.
She wanted him to touch.
"Yes," she breathed, answering a question he hadn't asked. "Yes, please—"
His fingers dipped beneath the neckline and found the soft swell of her breast. She cried out—too loud in the quiet grove—and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing her deep and hard while his hand explored.
Her knees buckled.
He caught her—of course he did—lowering them both to the mossy ground without breaking the kiss.
She ended up half in his lap, her dress rucked up around her thighs, his hands everywhere at once.
He touched her like she was precious and breakable, but also like he was starving for her, the two impulses warring in every stroke.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were almost black in the lantern light, the usual amber swallowed by pupil. "So beautiful, and you don't even know it."
"Thallos—"
"I've wanted you since the moment I saw you." His hand cupped her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "Sitting in that corner at the committee meeting, trying so hard to be invisible. You were the only person in the room I could see."
*Don't believe him,* whispered the voice that sounded like her mother's worst mistakes. *Men say things like this. They don't mean them.*
But Thallos wasn't other men. Thallos was—
He kissed her again, and the voice went silent.
She found herself pressing closer, wanting more, wanting everything. Her hips rolled against him without conscious permission, seeking friction, and he made a sound that was half groan, half growl. His hands tightened on her waist.
"Careful," he managed. "If you keep doing that—"
"What if I want to keep doing that?"
"Marigold."
She loved reducing him to just her name. Loved the way his control frayed at the edges when she touched him. All her life, she'd been the one affected by others, the one knocked off balance, the one scrambling to adapt. This was different. This was power.
His hand slid up her thigh, beneath the hem of her dress, and she forgot about power entirely.
"Tell me if—" he started.
"Don't stop."
His fingers traced higher, then higher still. She was trembling now, every nerve ending alive and singing, and when he finally touched her—really touched her, through the thin barrier of her underwear—she heard herself make a sound she'd never made before.
"That's it," he breathed against her ear. "Let me hear you."
She couldn't have stayed quiet if she'd tried. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, learning her, and she clutched at his shoulders like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"Please," she heard herself beg. "Please, please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't know. I don't—oh—"
He found exactly the right spot. She arched against him, head thrown back, and the sky above was full of stars that hadn't been there before, constellations she didn't recognize wheeling in patterns that seemed to match the rhythm of his hand.
"Let go," he said. "I've got you. Just let go."
And she did.
The wave crashed through her—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, her whole body clenching and releasing, spots bursting behind her eyes like fireworks.
She cried out—his name, maybe, or something wordless—and he held her through it, murmuring soft things against her hair while she shattered apart.
When she came back to herself, she was collapsed against his chest, breathing hard. His heart pounded beneath her ear. His hands had stilled but still cupped her gently, possessively.
"I—" she started, not sure what she wanted to say.
And then he pulled back. Not just with his hands, but with his whole body. One moment she was nestled against him, warm and sated. The next, he'd shifted her gently to the moss and put a foot of distance between them.
"Thallos?"
His face was strained. The desire was still there, obvious in the tension of his jaw and the rapid rise and fall of his chest, but something else had crept in. Something that looked like guilt.
"I shouldn't have—" He hesitated, clearly struggling to find the words. "The grove. The magic here. It can… affect people."
Cold washed through her. "What do you mean?"
"I told you this place was sacred. What I didn't tell you is why.
" He scrubbed a hand over his face. His horns caught the lantern light, glinting like obsidian.
"The old ones used it for rituals. Fertility rites.
Binding ceremonies. The magic that's seeped into the ground enhances things.
Emotions. Desires. It takes what's already there and amplifies it. "
She sat up slowly, her dress falling back into place around her thighs. Her body still hummed with the aftermath of pleasure, but her mind was spinning.
"Are you saying I only wanted that because of magic?"
"No." He met her eyes, and there was something almost desperate in his gaze.
"No, the grove doesn't create feelings from nothing.
It only intensifies what exists. But I should have warned you.
I should have—" His jaw tightened. "I brought you to a place that amplifies desire without telling you, and then I—"
"You didn't do anything I didn't want."
"You might not have wanted it so much. So fast." He looked away. "I've always known about the grove. I understand what it does. You didn't. You were at its mercy, and I—" His voice cracked. "I took advantage of that."
"You didn't—"
"I did." He was on his feet now, pacing the small clearing.
The lanterns swayed overhead, agitated by some unfelt wind.
"I told myself I was being patient. That I was giving you space and letting you come to me on your own terms. But then I brought you here, where the magic would do my work for me, and I—"
"Thallos."
He stopped pacing and looked at her.
She rose to her feet, her legs still unsteady. She crossed the space between them slowly, giving him time to back away if he wanted. He didn't.
"Look at me," she said.
He did. His eyes were anguished.
"Did you plan this? When you suggested practicing here—did you plan for this to happen?"
"No." The word came out raw. "I swear I didn't. I just wanted… I thought if we were somewhere private, somewhere beautiful, maybe you'd relax. Maybe you'd stop being so afraid. But I didn't think about what the magic might do, and that's… that's inexcusable."
"But you stopped. Just now, when things were—" She felt heat rise to her cheeks. "You stopped. You pulled away."
"I felt it." He swallowed hard. "The magic, I mean. It was building. Getting stronger. And I realized what was happening, and I—I couldn't. Not like this. Not with you thinking it was just you, when it might have been something else."
The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. This wasn't a male making excuses. This was a male who'd been handed exactly what he wanted on a silver platter and given it back because the terms weren't right.
*He stopped,* she thought. *When he could have had everything, he stopped.*
Something shifted in her chest. A wall she'd spent years building developed its first real crack.
"I need to think," she said.
"Of course." He stepped back, giving her room. "I'll walk you home. Unless… If you'd rather go alone—"
"Walk me home."
They left the grove in silence, the lanterns dimming behind them as if in farewell. The night air was cooler beyond the tree line, sharp against her flushed skin. She felt the absence of the grove's magic immediately—a subtle shift, like stepping out of a warm bath into air-conditioning.
But the wanting didn't fade.
That was the thing he didn't seem to understand.
He thought the grove had manufactured her desire, amplified some small spark into a conflagration.
What he didn't realize was that the spark had been there all along, growing every time he made her laugh or showed her unexpected kindness or looked at her like she was the only person in the world worth seeing.
The magic might have turned up the volume. But the song had already been playing.
They reached Bloom & Vine just before midnight, the shop dark and quiet, the vines above the door heavy with the flowers Thallos had coaxed into bloom their first night.
"Marigold." He stood at the bottom of the stairs that led to her apartment, his face half in shadow. "I'm sorry. For all of it."
"Don't be."
"But—"
"I'll call you." She climbed the first step, then paused. "Tomorrow. I need to think, but I'll call you."
He nodded, something fragile flickering behind his eyes. "I'll wait."
She climbed the rest of the stairs and let herself into her apartment without looking back. Only when the door was closed and locked did she let herself sink against it, pressing her palm to her still-racing heart.
The apartment was dark and quiet. Familiar. Safe. But for the first time in as long as she could remember, safety wasn't enough.