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“Watch me,” he growled. Then turned back toward the cabin.

Delilah wasn’t due for another hour, if she was coming at all. And a selfish part of him hoped she would. That the kiss hadn’t scared her away completely.

But he wouldn’t blame her if it had.

He ran a hand through his hair and started boiling water for the phoenix pup’s morning broth, trying to push the dream, the totem, and the taste of her kiss out of his head.

But the forest wasn’t quiet anymore.

And neither was his heart.

17

DELILAH

The morning sun cut across the apothecary’s wooden floor in long, soft beams, dust motes drifting in their wake like lazy fireflies. Delilah stood by the window with her tea—cool now, forgotten—and stared out at the path that led toward the sanctuary.

She hadn’t slept. Not really.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Rollo’s breath on her lips, remembered the way he tasted like cinnamon and heartbreak. The kiss still tingled on her mouth like it had stitched itself into her skin.

And Hazel’s words echoed louder than any dream.

He will mark you, or the woods will claim you both.

Delilah had half a mind to stay put. Let the day pass without a single step in his direction. Let silence make things simpler.

But something tugged at her—deep and unrelenting. A pull she couldn’t name. Maybe it was the bond. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the part of her that still, after everything,wanted.

She didn’t even realize she was moving until she was halfway down the path, wind tugging at her shawl and the scent of the forest growing sharper with every step.

The sanctuary was quiet when she arrived.

No sign of Rollo out front, but the door was cracked open, as if expecting her. The phoenix pup chirped from his pen and then promptly turned back into his nest, unimpressed by her presence.

She stepped inside, heart thudding against her ribs.

“Rollo?”

His voice came from the back, muffled. “Greenhouse.”

Of course.

She hesitated, then pushed through the side door into the greenhouse.

The moment she stepped in, warmth wrapped around her like a hug. The air smelled of honeysuckle, damp soil, and something distinctly green. The enchanted glass panels let in the sun in soft ribbons, and the vines above rustled faintly, as if whispering secrets between themselves.

He stood near the back, elbow-deep in a planter of moonleaf, shirt sleeves rolled up, dirt smudged across his forearm and the edge of his jaw.

He looked up—and froze.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” she admitted, stepping forward. “Thought about hiding behind jars and letting the awkwardness take care of itself.”

He wiped his hands on a cloth and set it aside, eyes never leaving hers. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

They stared at each other for a moment. The only sound was the soft rustle of the wind through the herbs and the creak of old wood adjusting in the heat.