Page 48 of Thistle Thorns

She lifted apologetic eyes. “You’re forbidden from leaving this house until we get you back to the manor, Meadow.”

“Grandmother!”

“Don’t,” Dad said, shaking his head. “The entire coven is in agreement on this. With the protection spell gone and you… evolving… and that magic hunter definitely knowing your potential now, it’s not safe. This farmhouse isn’t even as safe as we’d like it to be, but we can’t leave. Not until we contact Arcadis. When we do, you are coming back to the manor with us until we can resolve this issue.”

“You make it sound so easy,” I countered. “Mom told me what she could about the prophecy, about manifesting it into being. It seems no matter what I do, I am hurtling towards that nexus, and there’s nothing any of you can do to stop it.”

“Forsythia should not have told you that,” Grandmother said tightly.

“Iris,” Dad hissed. “We must—”

“To speak his name, to even think about him, draws him closer,” she hissed back, flinging up her hand to cut off any further objection. “We retrieve Marten, return to the manor, and pray to the Green Mother he will pass Meadow by.”

“I’ve proven I can fight,” I protested.

“It is not just physical prowess you need, Meadow, but fortitude of spirit. You are becoming—”

Though it was Grandmother who’d said the words, I heard them in Violet’s timbral voice.

“—and not fully realized as Violet’s heir just yet. You are vulnerable.”

“Then train me,” I pleaded.

Grandmother glanced at my father, then nodded once. “At the manor. We have no choice now.”

Instead of protesting again, of demanding to take action now, I truly digested what she, Mom, and Dad had said, and replied, “Thank you.”

Grandmother started, jerking as if my words had sent a jolt of electricity through her. She wet her lips and nodded once more, rising from the bed and flicking her fingers at Dad to do the same. “You’ve slept most of the afternoon and evening, but sleep until dawn if you can. Tomorrow will be… intense.”

“Say goodnight to Arthur,” Dad told me, taking hold of Grandmother’s elbow to usher her away from the hearth room. “I don’t want him sleeping out on the porch.”

“But,” Grandmother objected.

“Move, Iris.” That wasn’t Tod Hawthorne talking, but a father who was giving his daughter a moment of happiness that no one was going to interfere with, not even the matriarch of his family.

She glared at him and thrust a glowing hand at the hearth fires. They flared a deep green in response, and with an incantation too quick for me to follow, a barrier rose around the house, infused into the walls themselves. “You don’t go out, and he doesn’t come in this house,” she managed to get out before Dad hauled her away.

Kicking off the quilts and clutching the throw blanket to my throat, I rushed to the window and threw up the sash. Arthur shoved off the siding, hazel eyes bright.

“This is some Romeo and Juliet shenanigans,” I told him, seizing his sleeve and pulling him close.

“Except it’s a porch instead of a balcony.” His wry smile vanished as he yanked off his hat and tore off his scarf, unzipping his jacket next.

“I could probably break through this spell like I did with the cuffs, just give me a second.”

“And alert everyone in the house? No.” He rammed the sash up as far as it would go and ripped the throw blanket away from me, exposing the range of my shoulders and the tops of my breasts above the thin camisole. Amber flashed in his eyes. “This is between you and me. They’re not invited.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Arthur cupped my cheeks in his warm hands and brought his lips crashing down on mine. I wrapped my arms around his neck, moaning at his tongue’s caress. As of late, our kisses were never gentle, never sweet. They were always fierce and stolen and fearful that each one would be our last.

Breaking away from his mouth, I kissed roughly down his neck. Just like under the maple tree, it was impossible to get enough of him. Yet despite my impatience to devour my bear, and be devoured by him in return, my attentions slowed. Every sensation needed to be savored. Arthur Greenwood wasn’t a one-note cheesecake; he was an entremet full of glorious flavors to explore. The soft bristles of his beard against my palm, the taste of sweat and forest and him on my tastebuds, the burning heat of his shifter skin. The reverberation of his one-note chuckle through my lips as he marveled at my ferality as I trailed down his throat to his chest.

The buttons of his shirt didn’t break, but they certainly popped, and then my teeth were digging into the claws of his tattoo, tongue swirling against the inked flesh.

“Hungry girl,” he rumbled, fisting my hair and guiding my lips back to his. “Didn’t you already have your supper? I see that tray on the bed.”

“I didn’t get dessert,” I rasped against his mouth.

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