Chapter 21
Sunlight painted golden stripes across the tangled sheets.
Thallos had been awake for nearly an hour, content to simply watch Marigold sleep.
She lay curled against his side, one hand resting on his chest, her dark hair fanned across his pillow like spilled ink.
Her face was soft in repose—the tiny furrow between her brows smoothed away, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and even.
*Mine,* he thought, and the word resonated through him like a struck chord. She's mine.
Not possessed. Not owned. But chosen and wanted. And he was hers in return, more completely than he'd ever belonged to anyone.
She stirred, her fingers twitching against his skin, and he felt his pulse quicken. Even in sleep, her touch affected him. Every brush of her hand, every unconscious shift of her body against his—it all registered with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming.
Satyrs were creatures of sensation. Of pleasure and music and wild joy.
But this was specific. Personal. Per particular scent.
The exact weight of her hand over his heart.
The precise curve of her hip against his thigh.
He wanted to memorize all of it. Catalogue every detail so he could hold it close during the moments when she wasn't beside him.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
"You're staring."
Her voice came out sleep-roughened, barely above a whisper, but her lips curved into a smile even before she opened her eyes.
"Guilty," he admitted. "You're beautiful when you sleep. And when you wake up. And when you're arranging flowers. And when you're telling off your mother. Especially then, actually."
A soft laugh escaped her. She shifted, stretching languidly, and the sheet slipped lower across her shoulder. He tracked the movement hungrily.
"What time is it?" she murmured.
"Early still. Dawn was maybe an hour ago."
Her eyes opened fully then, green and luminous in the morning light. For a moment she just looked at him—searching, assessing. He held still under her scrutiny, letting her see whatever she needed to see.
"This is our second morning together," she said, and he nodded.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against the soft skin of her cheek. "Any regrets?"
"No regrets." She turned her face into his palm, pressing a kiss there. "Not a single one."
"Good." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Because I plan to make this a regular occurrence."
"Is that so?"
"Very so." He rolled onto his side, bringing them face to face. Their noses almost touched. "Every morning, if you'll let me. Waking up with you. Watching you come back from sleep. Being the first thing you see."
"That sounds…" She paused, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty, the old fear trying to resurface. "That sounds like a commitment."
"It is."
"We've only known each other a few weeks."
"I've known you were special since the moment Ellie introduced us.
" He let his hand drift down her arm, trailing warmth in its wake.
"Longer, probably. I noticed you at the shop before that.
You probably didn't see me—you were elbow-deep in sunflowers, talking to them while you arranged them.
I stood outside the window for ten minutes like an absolute fool. "
Her cheeks flushed. "I talk to the flowers."
"I know. It's adorable."
"It's probably a sign of impending madness."
"Then I'll happily go mad with you." He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm serious, Marigold. About this. About you. I know it's fast. I know you have every reason to be cautious. But I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not changing my mind."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. He let the silence stretch, giving her space to think.
"My mother," she finally said, "has been married four times."
"You told me."
"She falls in love constantly. Passionately.
Completely. And then it fades, or something better comes along, and she's gone.
Every time, she swore it was forever. Every time, she meant it.
" Her voice was steady, but he could hear the old wounds underneath.
"I grew up watching her make promises she couldn't keep.
I learned very early that words are easy. That certain doesn't mean permanent."
He nodded slowly. "You learned not to trust feelings. Especially the intense ones."
"Especially those." Her eyes met his. "What I feel for you is… intense."
"I know the feeling."
"It scares me."
"I know that too."
"How do you know?" A hint of frustration crept into her voice. "How do you know this is real? That it's not just—just the grove magic, or physical chemistry, or some satyr thing I don't understand?"
He considered the question seriously, because it deserved a serious answer. She wasn't fishing for reassurance; she was genuinely asking.
"The grove magic heightens what's already there," he said carefully.
"It doesn't create feelings from nothing.
If there was nothing between us, the magic couldn't have affected you.
As for physical chemistry…" He smiled ruefully.
"I won't pretend that's not part of it. You're gorgeous, and I've wanted you since the first time you glared at me for flirting too aggressively. "
She made an indignant sound. "I didn't glare."
"You absolutely glared. It was magnificent.
" He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips.
"But that's not why I'm certain. I'm certain because of the way you challenged me about the wine selection.
Because you organized our festival planning into color-coded spreadsheets.
Because you stood up for yourself with your mother even though it terrified you.
Because you see me—not just the flirtatious exterior, but the parts I usually keep hidden. "
Her breath caught, but he held her gaze. "This isn't a whim, Marigold. This isn't physical attraction or magical influence. This is me, choosing you, with my eyes wide open. And I'll keep choosing you. Every day. For as long as you'll let me."
Tears welled in her eyes—the good kind, he thought. The overwhelmed kind.
"That's a lot of pressure," she whispered.
"Is it? I thought it was romantic."
A watery laugh escaped her. "It's terrifying."
"Terrifying can also be romantic. Very popular in Gothic novels, I'm told."
"I don't want to live in a Gothic novel. Too many drafty castles."
"Fair point. My cabin has excellent insulation."
She laughed again, more freely this time, and he relaxed a little. He pulled her closer, tucking her against him, and felt her nestle into his embrace.
"I can't promise I won't be scared," she said into his shoulder. "I can't promise I won't have moments where I want to run away."
"I know."
"I might need reassurance. A lot."
"I'll provide it. Gladly. Daily, if necessary."
"I might doubt you. Even when you don't deserve it."
"Then I'll prove myself. As many times as it takes." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm not asking for perfection, Marigold. I'm asking for a chance. One day at a time. One choice at a time."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she tilted her face up, finding his lips with her own.
The kiss started gentle—a question, an answer, a promise. But it deepened quickly, heat building between them like kindling catching flame.
"Again?" she murmured against his mouth.
"If you want."
"I want."
That was all the encouragement he needed.
Afterwards, they lay tangled together in the morning light, sweat-slicked and breathing hard and utterly content.
"We should probably get up," she said eventually.
"Probably."
Neither of them moved.
"My mother's still at the apartment."
"Most likely."
"She's probably very upset."
"Almost certainly."
A long pause.
"I still don't want to move."
He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Then don't. We could stay here forever. I'll have food delivered. We'll become hermits. The townspeople will tell legends of us."
"*The Hermits of the Vineyard,*" she said dryly. "Known for their excellent wine and refusal to deal with difficult mothers."
"I'd buy that book."
She swatted his shoulder lightly. "I have to face her eventually. And I need to check on the shop. Mrs. Patterson has a standing order for Tuesdays."
"It's Sunday."
"Is it?" She blinked. "I've completely lost track."
"Time stops meaning much when you're having mind-blowing sex."
"Thallos."
"What? It's true." He grinned at her scandalized expression. "Fine. I'll be slightly less smug. But only slightly."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. "I should shower."
"I'll join you."
"That won't make the shower go faster."
"No," he agreed. "But it will make it more enjoyable."
The shower took twice as long as strictly necessary.
By the time they emerged—clean and flushed and grinning like fools—the sun had climbed higher in the sky. He dug through his dresser for clothes while Marigold collected her things from where they'd been scattered the night before.
Her blouse was slightly wrinkled. Her skirt had somehow ended up halfway across the room. She gathered them with a rueful expression.
"I look like I'm doing the walk of shame," she said. "Again."
"You look like a woman who had an excellent night." He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "There's nothing shameful about that."
"Tell that to Main Street."
"I will, if you want. Loudly and in great detail."
She laughed, leaning back against him. "Please don't."
"Your loss. I give excellent testimonials."
She turned in his arms, rising on her toes to kiss him. "Walk me home?"
"Try to stop me."
The morning was bright and clear, the air carrying the green scent of the vineyard and the distant sweetness of wildflowers. They walked hand in hand through the rows of grapevines, their steps unhurried, their silence comfortable.