Page 36 of Thistle Thorns

His inhale was shaky. “And until you can, I can’t be with you in that way. I thought maybe being intimate, or even the words ‘mine’ and ‘mate’, would encourage your claiming of the bond, but…” Arthur shook his head.

A knot had formed in my throat where the fear and panic were strangling me, and it took more than one try to swallow and croak out, “Are you… leaving?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said forcefully, taking hold of my hand. “I’ll wait, for as long as it takes. I’m desperate for you, Meadow, but I can’t compromise on this. This is something I need—to be equally chosen.”

Despite his words, I felt this great chasm opening up between us. As much as he needed to be chosen, I needed reassurance. Right now. “Can… Can I hug you at least?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He pulled me in tight, encasing me in the leather jacket warmed by his solid body. Heat bloomed where his cheek pressed against the top of my head. “You are mine, Meadow. You can always hug me.”

The thrum of those familiar words echoed in my bones, warming me much more than his body heat.

“But I need to be yours, too.”

I nodded against his chest, and much too soon, in my opinion, Arthur eased himself away. Then he handed me my bowl of cobbler, retrieving his and giving it a stir with his spoon. “Now finish that. I slaved away and endured quite a few thorny splinters picking all those blackberries this summer, and a bear doesn’t share his food with just anyone.”

Only his mate.

I hoped, just as soon as we got Marten back, I would be able to use that word and mean it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Grandmother was loath to release the fiáin, but she did do it.

Not because of Flora’s threats—Fair Folk magic was nothing to be trifled with, and Flora was a garden gnome through and through.

Not because of Arthur’s silent and intimidating presence—her sparing his life in the moonflower grove proved she had respect for the Coalition, even if she thought all shifters were untrustworthy heathens.

Not even because of Daphne and Shari’s united front—sparing the innocent and mundane creatures of the world was at the heart of every green witch’s creed.

Iris Hawthorne released the feral fairy because of me.

No doubt she hoped this perceived victory on my part would soften my newfound rebellious nature—no, it wouldn’t—but I’d still take the win. It spared the pitiful creature, who was overjoyed to lead the way back through the eastern wood so it could once again be reunited with Flora’s giant Flemish rabbit Poppy and devour June bugs to its heart’s content. It was easy to keep track of at night, the silver yarn Shari had sewn into the hem and collar of the crocheted sweater twinkling with its lumbering gait. She’d even made holes for Flint’s pointed ears to stick through the hood.

“We’re just a phone call away,” Daphne assured me, tucking her floral shawl up by her neck where her buckskin collar didn’t quite reach. She settled her broad-brimmed hat on her beautiful white hair and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thursday Crafting night at our house, as usual, if you can sneak away. We’ll make the Midori cocktails extra strong.”

“I’ll…” My voice trailed off as I sensed I was being watched.

Glancing over my shoulder, I found Grandmother, Mom, and Aunt Hyacinth all with pursed lips and their arms crossed over their chests. Mom’s fingers drummed along the crook of her elbow. She might’ve let me in on some information Grandmother wouldn’t have shared, but she still wasn’t pleased about my bond with the shifter.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Daphne. Thank you.” Then I leaned in and whispered, “Give my best to you know who.” I’d seen Lewellyn in wolf form at the edge of the woods, a luminous glow to his golden-white fur.

“Shouldn’t you be saving your best for the bear?” she replied slyly, wiggling her fingers at me in a mischievous farewell. The thumps of her blackthorn shillelagh on the porch faded away as she hurried to catch up with the other ladies.

Arthur was gone shortly after, testing my family’s patience by kissing the back of my hand before trotting down the porch steps to his motorcycle, the empty cobbler dish tucked under his other arm. The invisible chain that bound us tugged hard on my heart as his motorcycle rumbled down the driveway. Pressing a hand to my chest and willing the pain away, I shut the door and returned to my awaiting family.

Eight pairs of eyes threatened to tack me to the wall. No, five pairs. Uncle Badger, Otter, and Aunt Peony’s gazes held no heat.

Dad cleared his throat and pulled out a pewter pocket watch, clicking it open with his thumb. “It’s almost the witching hour,” he announced to the room in general.

The witching hour—midnight—was an auspicious time for spellcasting no matter what kind of magic a witch practiced. As innately powerful green and hearth witches, the Hawthornes never really paid this hour of the day any special attention, but this time, with them away from their ancestral home and the full power of their hearth, they were seizing every advantage.

“Badger,” Grandmother said before she signaled Mom to join her upstairs, no doubt in the attic where the full-length mirror was. Aunt Peony and Aunt Hyacinth disappeared into the hearth room to check on the potions Aunt Peony had started while we’d been away that afternoon.

My kind uncle stepped forward and, with a wave of his hand, deposited all the wood Grandmother had purchased at Cedar Haven onto the empty dining room table. After it landed, brown-green threads of Uncle Badger’s magic outlined specific areas on each piece, almost like the perforated line on notebook paper that made it easier to tear out.

“Otter and I will cut along these lines,” he instructed, “and the rest of you will coat the fresh edges in the rooting lacquer.”

Aunt Hyacinth dropped a cloth trivet near the end of the table, as well as all the olivewood cutlery Grandmother had purchased at Cedar Haven, then got out of the way.

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