Chapter 13
The bottle shattered against the stone wall of the wine cellar.
Thallos watched the dark red spread across the ancient limestone, rivulets running down like tears—or blood—and felt absolutely nothing.
Which was, perhaps, the problem. He should feel something.
Anger, at least. Frustration. Instead, there was only this hollow, echoing emptiness where his chest used to be.
Can't make the lesson tonight. Something came up at the shop.
Three days. Three days of polite deflection and unanswered calls and texts that said nothing while somehow managing to scream rejection.
He grabbed another bottle from the rack—a mediocre vintage, nothing worth saving—and hurled it after the first. The crash was satisfying for exactly half a second.
"That's a waste of perfectly adequate wine."
He spun, hooves scraping against the stone floor.
Winnie Sanderson stood at the cellar entrance, her tall, severe frame silhouetted against the afternoon light streaming down the stairs.
Her grey hair was pulled back in its characteristic tight bun, and she surveyed the destruction with the cool detachment of someone who had witnessed far worse tantrums in her considerable lifetime.
"I didn't hear you knock," he said.
"Because I didn't." She descended the stairs with surprising grace for a woman her age, her long burgundy skirt brushing each step. "Your door was open. Your field hands said you'd been down here for hours. They're worried, though they're far too afraid of you to say so directly."
"I'm fine."
"Clearly." She gestured at the spreading pool of wine and broken glass. "This is exactly what 'fine' looks like."
He turned away, gripping the edge of the wine rack until his knuckles went white. "Did you need something, Winnie? I'm not exactly in the mood for company."
"I can see that." She didn't move, didn't retreat. Simply stood there, radiating the kind of patient disapproval that made him feel like a wayward child. "When's the last time you ate?"
"I don't—"
"Sleep?"
"What does it matter?"
"It matters because you're acting like a fool, and I've known you long enough to say so to your face." She stepped closer, her boots crunching on broken glass. "Tell me what happened with the Bloom girl."
His jaw tightened. "Nothing happened."
"Try again."
"We were practicing the dance. In the grove." He stared at the wall, at the wine still dripping down the stone. "Things… escalated. And then I stopped because the magic… I didn't want her to do something she'd regret. I thought I was being honorable."
"And?"
"And then she canceled our next lesson. Said something came up. Hasn't answered a single call since." He finally turned, and whatever Winnie saw in his face made her expression soften fractionally. "I don't understand. I did everything right. I stopped. I gave her space. I told her I'd wait."
"You did."
"So what did I do wrong?"
Winnie was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a small silver flask. "Sit down."
"I don't want to—"
"I wasn't asking."
There was something in her voice that he couldn't refuse. He found himself sinking onto an overturned crate, suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Winnie handed him the flask. "Drink."
He took a sip without thinking and nearly choked. Whatever was in there, it wasn't wine. Something herbal and sharp and almost painfully warm slid down his throat.
"What the hell is that?"
"Family recipe. Clears the head." She settled herself on another crate across from him, carefully arranging her skirts. "Now. I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to listen without interrupting. Can you manage that?"
He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her he was fine, that he didn't need help, and that he could handle his own problems. But the truth was, he'd been handling his own problems for decades, and all it had gotten him was this—sitting in a wine cellar, destroying his own inventory, while the one person he actually wanted walked further away with every passing hour.
"Fine," he said.
"Good." Winnie folded her hands in her lap. "Three days ago, Marigold was at Cool Beans with her friend. Rachel walked in."
Everything in him went very still.
"Go on."
"Rachel made certain… comments. About your history. About the women you've been involved with. About satyrs in general and their inability to commit." Winnie's eyes were sharp, watching his reaction. "She mentioned a dryad who supposedly moved away after you 'got bored' with her."
"That's not—Sylvara and I ended things mutually.
She moved because she got a position at a botanical conservatory in Portland, something she'd wanted for years.
" His hands clenched into fists. "And yes, there have been others—I've never pretended to be something I'm not.
I've never promised more than I could give. "
"I know that. You know that. But Marigold doesn't." Winnie leaned forward slightly.
"What she knows is that a beautiful, confident woman just confirmed every fear she already had.
That you're charming and attentive until you're not.
That you collect women like trophies. That she's nothing special—just the latest in a long line of conquests. "
Her words rained down like blows of a hammer. He pressed a hand to his chest, half-surprised to find it still intact.
"That's not true," he said. "She's not—I'm not—"
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because she's been cleaning up after her mother's romantic disasters her entire life.
" Winnie's voice softened. "Every time her mother fell for a charming man who promised the world, Marigold was the one left picking up the pieces.
She learned very young that charm is often a mask for carelessness.
That passion fades. That she would always be the one left behind. "
He closed his eyes. *I don't do things like that,* she'd said in the grove. *I don't let myself get swept up.*
And he'd swept her up anyway. Taken her to a magical place and touched her until she forgot all the walls she'd built. Then acted surprised when those walls went back up twice as high.
"I thought I was being careful," he said. "I stopped. I told her the magic might have affected—"
"And in doing so, you gave her an excuse to doubt everything she felt."
His eyes snapped open. "What?"
"Think about it." Winnie rose, moving to examine the labels on the nearest wine rack with studied casualness. "You told her the grove amplifies emotions. That it might have influenced her response. What do you imagine she concluded from that?"
The realization crashed over him like ice water.
"She thinks it wasn't real," he said slowly. "That what she felt—what we both felt—was just the magic. That without it, she wouldn't have…"
"Given herself permission to want you. Yes."
"But that's not how it works. The grove doesn't create—it only amplifies what's already there." He stood abruptly, pacing the narrow aisle between wine racks. "I explained that. I told her—"
"You told her while she was still in the grip of whatever the grove had stirred up. How much do you think she actually processed?" Winnie pulled a bottle from the rack, examining it. "And then you walked away. Gave her space. Let her sit with her fears without you there to counter them."
"I was trying to respect her boundaries."
"A noble impulse. But sometimes, respecting boundaries means letting someone convince themselves of lies.
" She replaced the bottle and turned to face him fully.
"You've been down here for three days, drinking and brooding and feeling sorry for yourself.
Meanwhile, Rachel's poison has had time to seep in.
Every hour you don't show up, every call she doesn't answer, becomes proof that she was right to doubt you. "
He stopped pacing. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that retreat, while comfortable, is not always wisdom.
" Winnie's eyes held his, ancient and knowing.
"If you truly care for this girl—and my sisters and I believe you do—then hiding in your cellar is the worst possible response.
You're proving Rachel right. You're showing Marigold that at the first sign of difficulty, you'll disappear. Just like everyone else."
The words struck something deep inside, something he'd been trying not to look at.
Because wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing for the past few years? Charming and attentive until things got complicated, then stepping back with a gracious smile and moving on? It was easier that way. Safer. No one could betray you if you never gave them the chance.
But she wasn't a complication to be avoided. She was… she was everything he'd never known he wanted. The softness under her shyness. The steel in her spine. The way she'd looked at him in the grove, like he was something precious and terrifying all at once.
*When you're ready, I'll be here.*
He'd meant it as reassurance. But to someone who'd spent her life being left behind, it probably sounded like indifference. Like he could take her or leave her. Like she wasn't worth the effort of pursuit.
"What do I do?" he asked desperately. "She won't answer my calls. She won't see me. I can't exactly break down her door."
"No." Winnie's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "But you can stop acting like a wounded pup and start acting like someone who actually wants to be chosen."
"That's not helpful."
"Then let me be more specific." She moved towards the stairs, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Tomorrow night. The concert in the town square. Everyone will be there—including Marigold. Her friend won't let her hide forever."
"And what am I supposed to do? Corner her in a crowd?"
"I think you'll figure something out." The almost-smile widened. "You're a satyr, aren't you? Music. Dancing. Grand romantic gestures. It's practically in your blood."
She started up the stairs.
"Winnie."
She paused but didn't turn.
"Why are you helping me?"
Now she did turn, and her expression was gentler than he'd ever seen it.
"Because my sisters and I have watched this town for a very long time.
We've seen people find each other and lose each other and everything in between.
And every once in a while, we see something real.
" She held his gaze. "Don't let fear make you miss it. "
Then she was gone, her footsteps fading up the stairs and out of the cellar.
He stood alone in the dim light, surrounded by broken glass and spilled wine and the wreckage of his self-pity. The herbal drink still burned in his stomach, sharp and clarifying.
*Stop acting like a wounded pup.*
He looked down at his hands—broad and capable and currently useless. Three days he'd wasted, nursing his wounds like they were all that mattered. Three days while Marigold sat alone with Rachel's poison, convinced that everything between them had been a lie.
Three days too long.
He moved to the wall and pulled down a mop and bucket from their hooks.
If he was going to do something dramatic and foolish and absolutely necessary, he could at least clean up his mess first. The wine came up easily, the glass swept into careful piles.
By the time he climbed back into the afternoon sunlight, his hands were steady and his mind was clear for the first time since that awful text arrived.
Tomorrow. The summer concert. Music and food and the whole town gathered in one place.
He'd spent his entire life using charm as a shield, a way to keep people at a comfortable distance while they thought they were getting close. But Marigold didn't need his charm. She needed his truth. And if he had to declare that truth in front of everyone in Harmony Glen, then so be it.
He had one day to remember how to be brave. For her, he'd find a way.