Page 9 of Thistle Thorns

I kissed him like I was guzzling water after a week of thirst, hands groping his arms, his chest, fingernails grazing against the bear-paw tattoo, all the way down his taut stomach to his hips and the black cloth knotted there. Arthur growled again when I seized that knot and gave it a firm tug, urging him to fully close the distance between us, and he shoved his muscled thigh up between my legs.

My back arched with the sudden pleasure of his bare skin rasping against my silk-covered flesh, and I wiggled into a better straddling position, drawing a low groan from his throat. Arthur leaned over me, fusing his mouth against mine. He was all fire, his kisses branding, his hands hot as they caressed down my ribs to grip my hips. Then his thigh began to move in the most wondrously thorough and unhurried rhythm, stoking the heat between us with each long stroke.

“Arthur,” I whispered frantically, bracing my hands against his corded forearms to keep me from melting straight off his thigh. His breath blasted hot against my cheek, its ragged pace matching mine. Gasping, I—

The flute blasted a note that exploded in the air like a firework.

“Oh my Green Mother,” I croaked, absolutely mortified and shucking myself from Arthur’s leg. I’d completely forgotten Otter was just on the other side of the tree, presumably minding his own business, but how could he not hear the frenzied panting going on less than six feet away? And where were my senses? I’d almost given myself over to this primal lust in front of the entire orchard!

The lumberjack shifter remained where he was, forearm braced against the tree and his forehead leaning against it, chest heaving. When I squirmed to untangle myself, his free arm caught me around the middle. Arthur straightened, pulling me into his embrace. Then he tucked the wisps of brown hair behind my ear and crooked his finger under my chin, lifting my heated face.

“I am not ashamed of kissing a witch,” he told me. “Are you ashamed of kissing a shifter?”

“I think we were doing a little more than just kissing,” I mumbled.

His mouth quirked, but his eyes remained serious. He cocked an eyebrow, awaiting my response.

I shook my head, chin rubbing against his sternum. “No. I’m not ashamed of you, Arthur Greenwood.” A smile lifted my lips. “Bear claw.”

Leaning down, he kissed me once more as if to remind me—thoroughly—of what I’d just said. “Good.”

I didn’t let him go, content to steal another moment pressed against him. “Does the Coalition allow this?” I ventured. “I-I mean, relationships between witches and shifters?”

Arthur gave me a quizzical look. “Of course. Though, shifters tend to remain with their kind, to further the bloodline, but partnering outside of it is not as forbidden as your grandmother would have you believe. It is not a common occurrence, true, but it happens. And no one would think to contest a bond like ours. And it’s because of that that I’ll help you however I can to get your brother back.”

Releasing me, he spun me around to face the farmhouse and gave my backside a playful swat. “Now go on back to your family, little cider witch. I need to check on Cody. I’ll be back for you tonight.”

I’ll be back for you tonight. He knew who my family was and wasn’t afraid of them. Would endure their ire and prejudice for another chance to see me. To maybe even kiss me again. Despite the stress of Marten’s abduction, of the threats we’d yet to fully address, I gushed a smile at him. His answering grin crinkled the corners of his eyes and made my heart melt like butter on a stack of fresh waffles.

The lumberjack shifter lingered until I was past the floral wards and back in the fenced-in yard before turning for the eastern woods. Otter was waiting for me, leaning against the maple tree and spending an inordinate amount of time on polishing a spotless section of his flute with the hem of his robes. When he looked up, he feigned surprise. “Oh! You’re back.”

“Uh-huh,” I said lightly, pretending nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

He pushed himself off the trunk and tucked the flute away in his robes. Then he linked arms with me, his longer legs pulling us across the lawn and towards the farmhouse at a faster pace.

“I’m actually surprised you left us alone,” I admitted. “Well, sort of.”

My easy-going cousin gave a light shrug. “He saved you from the portal. A bunch of us, actually. If that didn’t earn him a semi-private conversation with you, I don’t know what will.”

Then he gave me an accusing look from the corner of one brown eye. “We never gave Lilac any flak about that shifter she snogged by the garden gate only because she was using him like she did all the others. He was nothing more than an adrenaline rush and a hit of dopamine. But you are not her, Meadow. You’re serious about this bear. I personally don’t care, you’re in charge of your own happiness ”—he gave my shoulder a light bump—“but there’s a reason why Grandmother outlawed shifters. Particularly shagging them. So… you’re welcome.”

My gaze remained fixed straight ahead even as my cheeks stained. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Otter flashed me a knowing smile and opened the back door for me, releasing the cacophony of voices brewing inside, and ushered me forward. “Neither do I, Meadow, neither do I.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“You’ve got a scrappy hearth there, Meadow,” Uncle Badger said as I entered the farmhouse to find Aunt Peony and Grandmother hunched on the slate stones. It was unclear from his level tone whether or not he found the observation amusing. “It’s giving Grandmother a run for her money.”

“It is not,” came a snippy reply. “It will submit.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, leaning over the two crouched women to get a better look at the hearth.

The fire I had nurtured since my first day in Redbud was treating the ember of the Hawthorne hearth like an interloper. A usurper. Two separate fires devoured the wood on the iron grate, mine a paler lemon in comparison to the robust goldenrod color of the Hawthorne flames. They lashed at each other, fighting for space and dominance. Uncle Badger was right: my hearth fire might be younger, but it was well nourished and fighting to defend its home turf with everything it had.

“It’s like watching a cock fight,” Otter mused. “Or, I suppose, a phoenix fight.”

“Well you better hope they simmer down,” Grandmother snapped back at him, summoning green magic to her hands to force them both into submission. “If they don’t, we can’t contact the rest of the family at the manor, much less make the potions we need to contact Arcadis or fortify this rickety old termite feasting ground of a house.”

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