Page 27

“I didn’t mean to reject you. I don’t know what I meant, and I…” I trail off, get to my feet, and pull at my hair again. “I’m not promising anythin’, alright? I’m not sayin’ come grab me and drag me off into the woods. But I didn’t mean to be cruel by runnin’ away from you.”

A twig cracks somewhere far beyond the yard, and I freeze. For one suspended second, I wait for the scent or the glow in the trees.

…but nothing comes. The forest remains silent.

I sigh and look down at the stone again, then shake my head. “I guess that’s it.”

I leave the stone on the step and go inside.

Sleep takes me fast that night. One second I’m staring at the ceiling with the window open, letting in the cool pine air, the next I’m in the forest.

Moonlight turns everything silver. I know this place and this feeling. Bare feet on moss, breath sharp in my lungs, and the sense of something behind me that would send prey running into panic, but instead fills me with electric anticipation.

I’m running again, this time with a grin splitting my face; long strides eating the distance. The path doesn’t exist, and yet I know exactly where to place my feet.

Only tonight, when I break into the clearing, I turn.

I don’t know why I do it. For months, I’ve woken up before I could get a good look. For months, I’ve let him chase me while some part of me understood he wasn’t trying to catch me unless I chose to stop.

So, I stop.

… and the sight of what’s behind me knocks every coherent thought out of my head.

11

Lucas

I expected antlers. Bone. A glowing lantern swinging from a black tine. I expect that towering shape from the trail: fused stag skull, slate skin, and claws.

Instead, there’s a man—or something close enough to make my brain stumble over the difference.

He stands a few yards away between two old trees, taller than any man I’ve seen up close—and that’s saying something, since I’m six feet myself.

Six-five, maybe more, long-limbed and carved with muscle in a way that makes my brain short-circuit for a second.

His chest looks like it could stop a truck, with arms that look like they could throw said truck into a creek, and a stomach cut into so many hard lines I briefly forget I’m supposed to be having a normal reaction to any of this.

Apparently, the local forest cryptid comes with eight-pack abs.

His hair is black, thick, and long enough to fall past his shoulders in heavy waves, as if no comb has ever won a fight against them. He’s wearing black pants and is bare-chested—because of course he is—with dark markings running over his chest, shoulders, arms, and up the side of his throat.

At first, I think they’re tattoos, then I remember our first meeting. They look like tree growth rings tattooed on his skin.

His eyes are what hold me. They’re blue—not normal blue, but burning with the same eerie blue-white glow as his lantern behind almond-shaped eyes.

Everything about him is rough, wild, and wrong in the cleanest way, and my body reacts before my brain finishes panicking that it’s reacting at all.

I’ve never looked at a man and thought beautiful. Not really. I’ve known men were good-looking in the abstract way. I can recognize it without wanting anything from it.

This man isn’t just beautiful; he looks like the forest built itself a body from shadow and roots, then gave it eyes bright enough to guide someone home or lure them deeper.

Well, then. I guess it’s time to admit I am having a late sexual awakening. Love that for me.

He walks closer, and my throat works around nothing before I force words out. “Are you…” I stop, trying not to fucking die because of how stupid this will sound. “Are you the same thing I saw in the forest?”

He watches me with an intensity that makes my pulse kick, then he gives one small nod.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing a hand over my mouth. “Right. Okay. So this is… you. This is what you can look like?”