Page 28 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
The place feels cold. Not from the fire—it’s still got a good bed of coals—but from something hollow I can’t patch up with kindling.
I slump at my worktable. It’s cluttered with half-finished figures: a fox whose tail I never finished carving, a tiny owl missing half a wing. All of them abandoned, same as I’ve abandoned everything else these past weeks.
Then my eye catches on a curl of parchment shoved under a block of wood.
I pull it free, fingers clumsy. It’s the engagement contract—creased, a bit smudged from when we signed it over mugs of hot cider. Her neat little scrawl sits beside my clumsy block letters. A joke at the time, almost. Just a clever ruse to keep her orchard, my forest. Nothing more.
Except it became more. Somewhere along the way, I forgot it was a shield and started pretending it was a promise. That it meant she was mine in truth.
I clutch the paper so hard it crinkles, wishing like hell it was something more binding. More sacred. Something that couldhold her to me even when she starts doubting. Even when the world gives her prettier options.
My chest goes tight, breath coming in rough pulls. I lean forward, elbows on the table, pressing the contract to my forehead like I can force the memory of her into me deeper—her laughter, her hands in my hair, the way she says my name all soft and wondering like she can’t quite believe it’s hers to speak.
“Stars help me, Maddie,” I whisper into the quiet, voice cracking worse than I’d ever let anyone hear. “If you’re gonna stop loving me, do it quick. Don’t let me rot waiting.”
The only answer is the low pop of the fire, the night wind pressing gentle fingers against the cabin walls.
I sit there long after the coals burn low, still clutching that foolish piece of paper like it’s the only thing tethering me to her. And maybe it is. Because right now, I can’t bring myself to walk back to her door, not when I’m still half-convinced the best way to protect her is to keep my distance.
Even if it tears me apart in the process.
CHAPTER 21
MADDIE
The world outside my window is burning itself down in the prettiest way it knows how. Leaves fall in lazy, drifting curls of gold and ember, the orchard sighs under their weight, and even the fence posts look dipped in honey under the afternoon sun. It’s the sort of day that would normally have me humming like a fool, arms buried to the elbows in dough, planning which pie to gift the old miller’s wife just to see her grin.
But instead, there’s this horrible, aching emptiness inside me. Like someone’s scooped out my chest and left nothing but a hollow space where my heart used to be.
I try to work through it. Roll out pastry, slice cold butter into the flour, pretend that the only reason my hands are shaking is because the kitchen’s drafty this time of year. But it’s no use. Every swirl of cinnamon in the air reminds me of him—of that night he let me feed him tiny forkfuls, scowling the whole time but secretly loving it. Every time I glance at the door, I half expect it to swing open and reveal Thornak, brow furrowed, muttering about a squeaky hinge just to have an excuse to hover close.
By the middle of the afternoon, I’m done. I pile turnovers—still warm from the oven—into a little wooden box, tucking a cloth over them to keep the steam in. My hands hover over it, unsure, before I finally drag over a scrap of parchment.
The pen blots twice before I find words.
I miss you. I shouldn’t, but I do. Even if you never come back.
I don’t sign it. Can’t. Just fold it, tuck it carefully under the edge of the cloth so it won’t blow away, and press the lid down like I’m sealing away something fragile.
The walk to his cabin is quiet, the hush of the forest almost tender. Every now and then a breath of wind dances through, stirring the leaves, sending a few skittering across the path like playful little spirits. The air smells like damp earth and woodsmoke. It’s beautiful, and I hate it for being beautiful without him by my side to grumble about it.
When I reach his clearing, I hesitate. His cabin looks exactly the same—sturdy logs, a faint trickle of smoke from the chimney—but there’s a sort of stillness to it, like it’s holding its breath. Like maybe it’s missing him too, even with him inside.
I climb the steps, set the box right by his door. My hand lingers on the wood, fingers tracing a knot in the grain. I almost knock. Almost call out his name.
But I’m too afraid of the silence that might answer.
So I turn and walk away, my throat so tight it feels like I’ve swallowed stones.
By the time I get back to the bakery, I’m a wreck. I try to lose myself in kneading dough, pressing my palms into it over and over like I’m trying to push all my loneliness right into the sticky mass. But it doesn’t work. The dough clings stubbornly to my fingers, gooey and uncooperative, and the harder I work it the more it tears instead of smoothing.
Hot tears spill over, falling in fat splatters that mix with the flour on the counter. “Oh stop it,” I mutter to myself, voice wobbly and cracked. “Don’t you dare cry over a man who’s too stubborn to let himself be loved.”
But my chest heaves anyway, the sobs coming faster, shoulders shaking so hard I nearly knock over the bowl of sugar. I press my sticky hands to my face, dough smearing across my cheeks.
“Stars above, Maddie, look at you,” I whisper, trying to laugh and failing. “A complete disaster for a man who might never want to come back.”
The door bangs open, and Liora storms in, her skirts trailing a swirl of crisp leaves behind her. She stops dead when she sees me hunched over the counter, hands and face both a sticky, floury mess.
