Chapter 27
The fiddle felt heavier than he remembered.
Thallos stood at the center of the stage, the worn wood of the instrument pressed against his shoulder, the bow trembling almost imperceptibly in his right hand. Below him, hundreds of faces waited in the lantern-glow—curious, expectant, unaware of what this moment cost him.
Five years.
Five years since he'd played in front of anyone. Five years since Jen had stood in a crowd much like this one and laughed at the raw emotion he'd poured into his music. Since she'd taken the vulnerability he'd offered and turned it into a weapon.
You actually believe this matters. That's what's funny. You think playing a few songs makes you deep.
The memory rose sharp-edged and familiar. He'd packed away the fiddle that same night. Told himself he was done with performances, done with baring his soul for audiences who couldn't understand. Better to pour wine and tell jokes and keep everything light, surface-level, safe.
His fingers tightened on the bow.
He could still walk away. Make some excuse about the scheduled band running late, hand things off to someone else. No one would blame him. No one would even know what they'd almost witnessed.
But then his eyes found Marigold.
She stood near the front of the crowd, the burgundy of her dress catching the lantern-light like something out of a dream.
Her dark hair spilled loose around her shoulders, and her face—gods, her face.
She was looking at him with such open hope, such quiet faith, that something in his chest cracked wide open.
She sees you, a voice whispered. The real you. Not the charm, not the performance. You.
And she'd stayed anyway.
She'd stayed through Rachel's barbs and Silas's manipulation. She'd looked at all his broken pieces and chosen to hold them anyway.
The bow found the strings.
The first note rang out pure and clear, a single bright tone that cut through the murmur of the crowd like a blade through silk. It hung in the air for one trembling moment—fragile, exposed—and then the melody began to unfold.
It wasn't the song he'd planned. That had been something safe, a traditional tune everyone would recognize, easy to dance to and easier to forget.
But his hands had other ideas. They moved of their own accord, fingers finding positions burned into muscle memory, drawing forth a melody he hadn't played since that night in his father's meadow, fifteen years old and drunk on his first taste of heartbreak.
A lament. A love song. A confession in the language of strings and horsehair and resonant wood.
The crowd faded.
They were still there—he could sense them in his peripheral vision, feel the weight of their attention like heat against his skin—but they ceased to matter.
The stage beneath his hooves ceased to matter.
The lanterns swaying overhead, the distant sounds of the festival winding down, the summer-sweet smell of night-blooming flowers—all of it dissolved into background noise.
All he could see was her.
Her hand had risen to her chest, pressing flat against her sternum like she was trying to hold something inside. Her eyes were bright, and not just from the reflected lantern-light. She was crying, he realized. Silent tears tracking down her cheeks, catching the glow and turning to liquid gold.
She understood.
Somehow, impossibly, she understood exactly what he was saying with every sweep of the bow. Every trembling high note. Every deep, resonant chord that thrummed through the humid air like a second heartbeat.
I've been waiting for you.
I didn't know I was waiting, but I was.
And now that I've found you, I'm terrified of losing you.
But I'm more terrified of never having you at all.
The melody shifted, darkening. The minor key crept in like shadows at twilight, speaking of old wounds and older fears.
Of a mother who'd left too soon. Of a father who'd poured all his grief into wine and soil and forgotten to save any softness for his sons.
Of Jen, beautiful and cruel, who'd looked at his offered heart and found it wanting.
They all left, the music said. One way or another, they all left.
But then—
Then the key changed again.
Major chords bloomed like sunrise, warm and golden, chasing away the shadows.
The tempo quickened, grew playful, and his hooves began to move against the wooden stage, tapping out a rhythm as old as his bloodline.
The music turned joyful. Hopeful. Certain in a way he'd never allowed himself to feel before.
But you didn't.
You stayed.
You chose me.
He was grinning now, he realized. Actually grinning, his whole body swaying with the music, lost in the sheer exhilaration of creation. He'd forgotten this. How good it felt to let the barriers down. To stop performing and just be.
The song built toward its climax, each note stacking on the last like stones in a tower, reaching higher and higher until—
Silence.
One breath. Two.
And then the crowd erupted.
The applause hit him like a physical wave, hundreds of hands clapping, voices cheering, the whole vineyard ringing with noise. People were standing, he realized dimly. A standing ovation. For him. For the music he'd been afraid to share.
But he barely registered any of it.
Because Marigold was pushing through the crowd toward the stage, her cheeks still wet with tears, her expression a complicated tangle of emotions he couldn't begin to untangle.
She reached the steps and started climbing, and suddenly she was there—right there, close enough to touch—and she was looking at him like he'd hung the stars in the sky just for her.
"That was…" Her voice cracked. She shook her head, tried again. "Thallos, that was—"
He kissed her.
The fiddle clattered somewhere—he'd dropped it, he realized distantly, hoping it was okay—but he couldn't bring himself to care because her mouth was warm and soft and tasting faintly of powdered sugar, and her hands were fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer—
The crowd's cheering reached a fever pitch.
"Get a room!" someone shouted—probably Lila, it had that chaotic energy—and he broke the kiss long enough to laugh against her lips.
"Want to get out of here?" he murmured.
Her eyes, still shining, met his. "Yes."
They barely made it through the cabin door.
He kicked it shut behind them, already pulling her close again, his mouth finding hers with an urgency that bordered on desperation.
The walk back from the festival had been torture—her hand in his, her shoulder brushing against his arm, the scent of her perfume mixing with night air and wood smoke until he thought he might lose his mind.
"I need—" He pressed her against the door, his breath ragged. "Gods, Marigold, I need—"
"I know." Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, surprisingly deft. "Me too."
The cabin was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. He could see her face clearly despite the dimness—satyr night vision had its advantages—and what he saw there made his chest ache with something far too big to name.
She was looking at him like he was worth something.
"The music," she said softly, even as her hands pushed his shirt off his shoulders. "That was—I've never—"
"I know." He dipped his head to press kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. "I've never played that for anyone before."
"Never?"
"Never." His fingers found the zipper at the back of her dress, sliding it down with aching slowness. "That song was for you. Only for you."
The burgundy fabric whispered down her body, pooling at her feet like seafoam.
Underneath she wore simple cotton—white bra, white underwear, nothing elaborate—but the sight of her stole his breath anyway.
She was all soft lines and gentle curves, freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations, her dark hair tumbling loose around her face.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "You're so—"
"Stop." She was blushing, he could see it even in the moonlight. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I want to. I want you to know exactly what I see when I look at you."
"What do you see?"
Everything, he thought. Home.
But the words felt too big, too soon, so instead he showed her.
He lifted her easily and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her into the bedroom.
The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight as he laid her down, taking a moment to just look.
To drink in the sight of her spread out on his sheets, moonlight catching in her eyes, lips parted and breath quickening.
"Thallos…"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "Let me. Please. Just… let me."
He took his time.
The festival urgency had faded into something slower, sweeter, more deliberate. He mapped every inch of her with his hands and his mouth, cataloging the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulder, her sensitive sides, and all the places that made her moan and arch into his touch.
When she reached for him, he caught her wrists and pinned them gently to the pillow.
"Not yet," he murmured against her skin. "I want to worship you first."
"That's—" Her voice was breathless, barely audible. "That's not—"
"Not what?"
"Not fair." She squirmed beneath him, trying to free her hands. "I want to touch you too."
"You will." He released her wrists, sliding down her body to press kisses across her stomach. "Soon. I promise. But right now…" Another kiss, lower. "Right now I need you to understand something."
"What?"