Chapter 12
The ceiling had a crack. Marigold had lived in this apartment for almost a year and never noticed it before—a thin, spidery line running from the light fixture toward the corner, barely visible in the pre-dawn gray.
She'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour, her mind running in circles while her body refused to move.
*I let a man I barely know touch me in a magical grove.*
The thought should have horrified her. Should have sent her spiraling into shame and second-guessing and all the other familiar patterns her mother's choices had burned into her psyche.
Instead, she felt… warm.
Confused, certainly. Unsettled, definitely. But underneath all that turbulence, a persistent warmth that had nothing to do with her flannel sheets or the morning sun starting to creep through the curtains.
She'd wanted it. She'd wanted *him.* And for once in her carefully controlled life, she'd let herself have what she wanted.
*The magic,* whispered the practical part of her brain. *He said the grove amplifies things.*
But he'd also said it couldn't create something from nothing.
She rolled onto her side, bunching the pillow under her cheek. Her body still felt different—looser somehow, like she'd unclenched muscles she hadn't known were tight. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he'd murmured her name—
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She grabbed it, heart lurching, but it was only Lila.
*Coffee? Cool Beans has those scones you like. I have gossip about Torin that I'm legally obligated to share.*
She smiled despite herself. Trust Lila to cut through the chaos with pastry-based bribery.
*Give me an hour,* she typed back.
*Make it 45 minutes. The scones go fast.*
She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water pound sense into her sleep-deprived brain.
The reflection that greeted her in the foggy mirror looked the same as always—same green eyes, same freckles, same slightly too-thin face from all the meals she'd skipped during the shop's rough early months.
But something had shifted behind those familiar features. Something new and uncertain and terrifyingly hopeful.
*You're being ridiculous,* she told her reflection. *It was one night. One moment. It doesn't have to mean anything.*
But she knew, with the bone-deep certainty that had kept her alive through her mother's chaos, that it already meant everything.
Cool Beans occupied a narrow storefront between a wellness store and a pub, but despite its cramped quarters, the café had become Harmony Glen's unofficial gathering spot—the kind of place where monsters and humans rubbed elbows over espresso and pretended they didn't notice each other's scales or horns or peculiar dietary requirements.
Lila had claimed their usual table by the window, two steaming mugs and a plate of scones already waiting. Her curly brown hair was pulled back with a paint-stained scarf, and there was a smear of something blue near her left temple.
"You look like you've been up all night," Lila said by way of greeting. "Either the flower arrangements for the Anderson's anniversary turned sentient and tried to murder you, or something interesting happened."
She slid into the chair across from her, trying her best to keep her face composed. "No sentient arrangements. Just… couldn't sleep."
"Uh-huh." Lila's brown eyes sharpened. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain satyr whose vineyard you were supposedly visiting for 'festival planning'?"
"How did you—"
"Small town. Someone saw you walking toward the woods at sunset. Someone else saw you coming back after midnight." Lila pushed one of the mugs toward her. "Also, you have that look."
"What look?"
"The look Torin gets when he's trying to pretend nothing's wrong but his whole face is basically a neon sign saying 'SOMETHING IS DEFINITELY WRONG.'" She took a sip of her coffee. "Or in your case, 'SOMETHING DEFINITELY HAPPENED.'"
She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her palms. The café bustled around them—a pixie arguing with the barista about dairy alternatives, two elderly gnomes debating the finer points of competitive gardening, a young mother trying to wrangle a toddler whose skin kept flickering between human and something decidedly greener.
Normal. This was all perfectly normal for Harmony Glen.
So why did everything feel tilted sideways?
"He kissed me," she said finally. "Again. More than kissed, actually."
Lila's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "Define 'more than kissed.'"
"I'm not—it didn't go that far. But it was…" She trailed off, unsure how to put it into words. *Intense? Earth-shattering? The single most alive she'd felt in years?* "It was a lot."
"And this is a bad thing because…?"
"Because it wasn't like me." She stared into her coffee like it might hold answers. "I don't do things like that. I don't let myself get swept up in… in passion and desire and—god, listen to me, I sound like a bodice ripper."
"You say that like it's an insult."
"Lila."
"I'm serious!" Lila leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"Mari, you've spent almost your entire life being careful.
Being responsible. Cleaning up your mother's messes and making sure everyone else was okay while you quietly fell apart in corners where no one could see.
When exactly were you supposed to have time for passion and desire? "
"That's not—"
"It is. And I love you, you know I do, but watching you build walls around yourself like some kind of emotional fortress has been painful. If Thallos managed to get past those walls, even for a night, maybe that's not something to be afraid of."
The words landed somewhere soft and vulnerable, a place she had spent years protecting. She wanted to believe them. She wanted to accept that what had happened in the grove was simple and good and nothing to be ashamed of.
But then she remembered her mother, sitting at a different kitchen table, saying almost the same thing. *He makes me feel alive, Marigold. Don't you want me to be happy?*
And look how that had turned out. Again and again and again.
The bell above the door chimed.
She glanced up automatically, and her stomach dropped.
Rachel stood in the entrance, looking perfectly put together in a crisp white blouse and designer jeans that probably cost more than Marigold's entire wardrobe.
Her sharp features scanned the café cataloging social hierarchies, and when her gaze landed on their table, her glossy red lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Well, well." She glided over, ignoring the line for the counter like it was beneath her notice. "The local florist and the… what is it you do again?"
"Artist," Lila said flatly. "I own a gallery."
"Right. The one in that drafty old cottage." Rachel's eyes slid to Marigold. "I heard you were at the vineyard last night. Late."
The words hung in the air, sharp-edged and deliberate.
"Festival planning," she managed. "We had to discuss the layout for—"
"Oh, I'm sure that's what you were discussing." Rachel's laugh was a precise, cutting thing. "Don't worry, sweetheart. You're hardly the first."
Her hand tightened around her mug. "Excuse me?"
"The first woman to fall for Thallos's little act." Rachel examined her manicure with studied casualness. "He does this, you know. Finds some sweet, naive thing and makes her feel special. The attention, the charm, those meaningful looks—he's perfected it, really. It's almost an art form."
"That's not—"
"There was a dryad last year. Very pretty, very innocent. She thought she was different too." Rachel shrugged one elegant shoulder. "She moved away after he got bored. She couldn't stand running into him at the market, I suppose."
She felt the blood drain from her face. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Rachel's eyes were cold, hard, nothing like the vapid socialite mask she usually wore.
"Ask around. Ask anyone who's been here longer than five minutes.
Thallos is charming and attentive and absolutely wonderful—until he's not.
Until he's found the next conquest and you're standing there wondering what you did wrong. "
"You're jealous." Lila stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "You've been after him for months and he's not interested, so you're trying to poison the well."
"I'm trying to help." Rachel's smile didn't waver. "Consider it a public service. Some of us have to learn the hard way that satyrs don't do commitment. That's literally what they're known for—parties and wine and temporary pleasures. It's in their nature."
"That's a stereotype—"
"It's biology. Ask him about the traditional mating cycles sometime.
Ask him why he's never had a relationship last longer than a season.
" Rachel tilted her head, studying her with something that might have been genuine pity buried under all the venom.
"You seem nice. Too nice for this, really.
I'd hate to see you become another cautionary tale. "
She turned on her designer heel and walked away, leaving silence in her wake.
Lila dropped back into her seat. "What a complete and utter—"
"Don't."
"Mari—"
"She might be right."
The words came out flat, nothing like her usual careful diplomacy. She stared at the table, seeing nothing, while her mind replayed every moment with Thallos through this new, poisoned lens.
The charm. The persistence. The way he always seemed to know exactly what to say, exactly how to touch her, exactly when to push and when to pull back.
What if it wasn't real? What if she was just the latest in a long line of women who'd fallen for the same routine?
*But he stopped,* whispered a desperate voice. *He stopped when he could have had everything.*
Or maybe he stopped because he'd gotten bored. Because the chase was more exciting than the catch. Because once she'd stopped resisting, she'd lost whatever appeal she'd held.
"Marigold." Lila reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Listen to me. Rachel is a bitter, jealous woman who can't stand seeing anyone getting something she wants. You cannot let her get in your head."
"What if she's not wrong?"
"She is. I've seen the way he looks at you—"
"You've met him once."
"And Torin has known him for years. They're friends, Mari. Actual friends. And Torin says—"
"I don't want to hear what Torin says." She pulled her hand back, wrapping both arms around herself. "I'm sorry. I just… I need to think."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She knew, without looking, that it would be him.
She looked anyway.
*Good morning. I hope you slept. Can we talk?*
Such simple words. Such ordinary words. Nothing about them should have made her chest ache like this.
She thought about the grove. About the magic he'd admitted to. About how he'd known—*known*—what that place could do, and brought her there anyway.
What if the magic was the point?
The thought was ugly and unfair and she hated herself for thinking it. But once it was there, she couldn't make it go away.
"I need to go," she said, standing abruptly. "I'm sorry, Lila. The shop… I have deliveries…"
"Mari, wait—"
But she was already moving, weaving through the café toward the door. The morning air hit her face like a slap, cool and sharp, and she stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, breathing through the tightness in her chest.
Her phone buzzed again.
*If you'd rather not do the lesson tonight, I understand. But I'd like to see you. Just to talk.*
She should respond. She should at least acknowledge him. That was the polite thing to do, the mature thing, the thing she would normally do without question. Instead, she opened a new message and typed quickly, before she could change her mind.
*Can't make the lesson tonight. Something came up at the shop. Will text later about rescheduling.*
She hit send and immediately felt sick.
The response came within seconds.
*Is everything okay?*
*Fine. Just busy.*
A pause. *Did I do something wrong?*
*Yes,* she thought. *No. I don't know. You made me feel things I wasn't ready to feel and now I don't know if any of it was real.*
She didn't type any of that. Instead, she shoved the phone back in her pocket and started walking, fast and purposeful, toward the safety of Bloom & Vine.
The phone buzzed again. And again. She didn't check it.
When she finally reached the shop, her hands were shaking too badly to work the key. She leaned against the door, pressing her forehead to the cool glass, and tried to remember how to breathe.
Inside her pocket, the phone began to ring.
She knew the sound—she'd assigned him a specific ringtone after their third meeting, something bright and cheerful that had seemed appropriate at the time. Now it felt like mockery.
She let it ring.
Three times, then four, then five.
Finally, mercifully, it stopped.
A moment later, one final text arrived.
*Okay. When you're ready, I'll be here. Take whatever time you need.*
She stared at those words until her vision blurred. Then she unlocked the shop door, stepped inside, and closed out the world behind her.
The flowers waited in their buckets, needing nothing from her but water and care. They wouldn't lie. They wouldn't charm her. They wouldn't make her question everything she thought she knew about herself.
She picked up her pruning shears and got to work.