Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
By the time the Samhain fires guttered out, Mistwood Hills had already spun the night into half a dozen contradictory tales.
Depending on whom you asked, Maude Harrow was either the savior of their sleepy village or its favorite villain finally caught mid-curse.
The blame shifted: lanterns, magistrates, or—absurdly—flour.
(She suspected Wesley planted that rumor just to keep people talking about something edible instead of her.)
Naturally, her brain clawed at her completed spell like a raccoon with a lockbox. Did she do it right? Did she actually? Or had she built the prettiest coffin anyone had ever seen?
She would find out eventually. Maybe. If the town didn’t burn her first.
The veil closed just after midnight. Maude felt it—the moment the world whispered back to itself.
Her looms purred under the cobbles, braiding calm into Mistwood’s bones.
The air prickled against her skin. And somewhere deep, she swore she heard Bailey’s laugh cut through the dark, brief as a spark.
She didn’t look too hard. The veil always took as much as it gave.
Selene, of course, had no patience for existential dread.
She’d insisted on buying every dessert they passed on the walk back from the square.
“For research,” she declared, cramming a honey-glazed fig into her mouth before Maude could point out that research usually didn’t end with vomiting in an alley.
Wesley had kissed Maude’s cheek good-night before vanishing back toward Sugar High. Selene and Oli squealed like children watching their first spell. Maude hexed their shoelaces together, sending them both sprawling across the cobbles, still shrieking with laughter.
Oli—glitter still shedding off him like dandruff—tried to drag her toward his manor afterward, promising “post-festival debauchery.” Maude declined with the sharpest smile she could muster.
She broke off from them halfway down the lane, warm cider and too many fried pears heavy in her stomach, her chest heavier still.
She should’ve floated. Instead, she felt like she was wearing a borrowed coat that didn’t fit.
Her mind did what it always did when something good happened—her specialty: take a moment that felt almost like happiness, hold it to the light, then chip away until nothing remained but flaws, cracks, and the aftertaste of her own foolishness.
By the time she reached her cottage, she’d convinced herself of four things:
Wesley left early → obviously meant he regretted the kiss.
He’d smiled too much → definitely mocking her.
He’d danced with her → charity, clearly.
He hadn’t come after her → proof, absolute proof, that he wanted nothing to do with her.
By the time Maude crawled into bed, she was convinced she’d hallucinated half of it. By the time she tossed through dawn, she was certain he’d only ever look at her with pity.
Which was why, when sleep gave up on her, she drew a ritual bath for clarity.
Rosemary for focus, lavender for calm, mugwort to stir intuition, verbena for protection.
The steam rose clean and green, the air thick with midnight and memory.
Clarity, she told herself. Or punishment.
She wasn’t sure which she was better at.
By dawn, Maude had scrubbed her emotions raw and padded across the floor in her linen robe, hair dripping onto her collarbone, when the knock came.
Three raps. Not Selene’s impatient fist. Not Oli’s theatrical cadence.
Her stomach went cold anyway.
She opened the door.
And there he was.
Wesley Rivers, leaning on her threshold like he’d argued with himself the whole walk over. His shirt was rumpled, his jaw tense, his eyes—saints, his eyes—lined with exhaustion. He looked like he hadn’t slept either.
Maude’s heart slammed. She braced for impact.
“Sorry for leaving early,” he said, hesitant. “I shouldn’t have—”
Here it was. The speech. The tidy undoing. The confirmation her mind had gnawed on all night.
She cut him off. “It’s fine.” She stepped back, already closing the door. “You don’t need to explain.”
His hand caught the wood before it shut.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Whatever that was at the festival—it doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” His voice cut harder than she expected. “It matters.”
She gave a brittle laugh, shaking her head. “You’re wrong. I know what I am. And it’s not something people keep.”
His brows drew tight, frustration flickering under the exhaustion. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“Then don’t pretend you know what I am.” The words spilled fast, a shield she couldn’t stop raising.
“I’m not soft. I’m not easy. I’ve never been good at—” she gestured, robe sleeve flaring like a wing, “—any of this. I don’t work with people.
I don’t bend. I don’t fit. Every time I’ve forgotten that, I’ve regretted it. ”
“Maude—”
“No, hear me. You’ll grow to hate me. You’ll want someone pliable. Someone who doesn’t bite when cornered. Someone who doesn’t burn everything she touches. That’s not me. It’s never been me.”
Wesley stepped closer, heartbreak raw in his eyes, enough to make her stomach lurch.
He cupped her face, palms rough and warm.
“I don’t need you soft and easy, Maude. I need you exactly as you are.
Fierce. Stubborn. Brilliant. The cracks you think make you broken—the edges you think cut too deep—they’re beautiful. Every piece of you is.”
She stared at him, heart in freefall. Her robe belt cinched too tight. Her fingers itched to break something, anything, to release the pressure. A tear slid down her cheek, hot, traitorous. His thumb brushed it away as if it were holy.
Her heart stuttered. “You’re wrong,” she said again, softer this time.
The corner of his mouth ticked up. He leaned forward, bit her bottom lip—gently. His breath ghosted against her mouth. “Liar.”
Her knees nearly buckled.
“Say what you know is true.”
Her pulse pounded everywhere at once. She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, and there it was—clearer than daylight, truer than any spell she’d ever cast. The look he’d been giving her for weeks. Maybe longer. Maybe since the start.
“You want me,” she breathed.
He smiled, soft and devastating, and pressed his lips to the spot he’d just nicked. “So badly, witch.”
Her breathing turned shaky. They shared the same air, every inhale and exhale tangled. His hands shook against her skin—not hesitation, but restraint. He was waiting. For her. Always waiting.
“Wesley,” she sighed—half a moan, half a warning.
They came together all at once, hungry and graceless. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to pull a gasp from her. She clutched his shoulders, then his back, arms locking tight before thought could catch up to her body.
He stepped forward, crowding her into the frame, and kicked the door shut. The slam rattled the beams, a shudder that seemed to run through both of them.
Her robe loosened under his grip, slipping off one shoulder, fabric sighing against her skin.
She bunched his shirt in both fists, yanking hard enough to feel the buttons strain.
He only laughed into her mouth—low, breathless, wicked—and the sound melted her bones, sent heat sparking everywhere his body pressed against hers.
Maude exhaled, eyes dragging over him—the strength she’d always known was there, the clean lines of muscle tapering to his tight stomach.
Her fingers found the ties at his pants just as his slipped to the sash at her waist. He tugged it loose, slow, reverent, until the robe slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
She stood bare before him, trembling breath catching in her throat.
His chest rose once, stalled. The air left him as if he’d been struck. “Beautiful,” he whispered.
Maude rose on her toes and brushed her lips against his. “You already said that.”
His mouth curved before he crushed her against him, kissing her hard. His tongue tangled with hers, heat sparking as his hands slid down to grip her backside, dragging her flush against him until she felt him hard—pressed against her.
Wesley groaned, thrusting forward as he broke from her lips to trail down her throat. Slow. Worshipful. His mouth found her breast, closing over her with a hunger that was aching, inexorable—as if he’d been waiting forever and refused to be gentle about it.
Maude panted against him, fingers tangled in his hair.
And then the growl came.
Shit.
Grim sat in the hallway like a king catching his subjects in scandal, tail curled, eyes glowing with judgment.
“Sorry, Grim,” Wesley muttered, not sounding sorry at all. Then he glanced back at Maude, breathless in his arms. “Where’s your room?”
Still dazed, she managed to point a shaky finger upstairs.
In the next breath, Wesley scooped her up—cradled her like she was some tragic fair maiden—and took the stairs two at a time.
She hated how much she didn’t hate it.
In the room, he lowered her onto the bed and just looked. His gaze moved slow, as though he meant to memorize her piece by piece. Heat climbed her cheeks, and for the first time in longer than she wanted to admit, she fought the urge to hide.
Her eyes slipped downward, catching the way he undid the ties of his pants.
Her breath caught; her mouth went dry. She bit her lip without thinking—and the sound that broke from him, low and ragged, cut through her like heat.
A sound she knew she’d chase again and again, if only to feel this impossibly, terrifyingly alive.
He moved toward her carefully, every shift across the mattress measured, as though approaching a spell that might bolt if handled wrong. His eyes burned when he reached her—so much want, so much patience—that she hooked her leg around his and rolled them.
In a beat, he was flat on his back, breath knocked out of him, staring up at her with startled eyes before laughter burst free.
She leaned back, smug, hair falling like a curtain between them.