Page 15

DELILAH

D elilah’s breath hitched.

For a moment, just a moment, everything inside her said yes —to the warmth of Rollo’s mouth, to the hand cradling her waist, to the quiet surrender she felt blooming in her chest like a long-buried seed finally touching light.

Then she remembered everything.

How it had felt to watch him walk away eight years ago, her palms still tingling with the magic that never had a chance to settle. The way the silence between them had grown teeth. How she'd been left loving someone who didn't know how to stay.

She pressed her hand flat to his chest, hard.

Rollo pulled back instantly, his eyes almost glowing.

“Delilah—”

But she was already stepping back.

She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Her lips still burned, but her voice had turned to dust.

With shaking fingers, she turned, grabbed the now-wobbly basket, and walked away.

Fast.

By the time she reached the apothecary, the sun had dipped below the hills, and the air was damp with the scent of moss and nightfall.

Inside, everything was still. Wren had left a light spell glowing in the front window, its soft amber hue flickering like fireflies. Thistle blinked at her from his perch atop the hearth, but didn’t move.

She nudged the door shut with her hip and dropped the basket on the counter with a loud thud of irritation.

“Stupid,” she muttered to herself. “ Stupid. ”

She didn’t bother lighting more lamps. Darkness felt easier right now. Like she could hide in it, if just for a while.

Wren was asleep in her rocker, breathing deep and steady beneath the quilt Delilah had woven her last Solstice. Thank the moon for that. She didn’t think she could stomach a knowing look or gentle, smug “I told you so.”

The silence was a mercy.

She began unpacking the basket, setting aside jars of moonflower resin, little bags of wild ginger, the enchanted dream candles Wren had specifically not asked for. Her hands moved on autopilot, her heart still thudding like a second heartbeat just behind her ribs.

What was she doing?

One kiss and her knees had gone soft. One moment and she’d let her guard drop like a loose thread unraveling all her carefully patched-up resolve.

“He still makes you feel like you’re twenty again,” she whispered to herself bitterly. “And you hated being twenty.”

A knock sounded at the door, soft but firm.

Delilah froze.

“Nope,” she said aloud, already walking to the back. “Nope, nope?—”

Another knock.

She turned, groaning under her breath. “Rollo, if you are standing out there like some pine-scented apology, I swear—” She pulled open the door. And blinked.

Not Rollo.

Hazel Fairweather.

Delilah instinctively straightened her spine.

Hazel was the kind of woman you couldn’t slouch around, even when she didn’t say a word. Elder of the town council. Seer. Dryad-blooded. She didn’t walk so much as arrive —tall, willowy, her hair a wild crown of braids threaded with living vines that shifted with the breeze.

And tonight, those vines were more thorns.

Never a good sign.

“Can I come in?” Hazel asked, voice soft and knowing but yet still cold.

Delilah stepped aside.

Hazel swept in like a storm wearing velvet, her long cloak trailing tiny purple blossoms that shimmered faintly in the dim shop light.

Hazel had never warmed up to Delilah, though Delilah had also left at the age most got to know Hazel.

“You look like someone who kissed an old flame and then set herself on fire,” Hazel said without missing a beat.

Delilah’s cheeks flamed. “Do all dryads read minds now?”

Hazel smiled. “Don’t need to. You’re practically glowing.”

“Pretty sure that’s residual embarrassment.”

Hazel wandered to the center of the room, fingertips brushing over a hanging satchel of dried lemon balm. The air thickened.

“I came because the forest sent me,” she said finally.

Delilah stilled. “What do you mean?”

Hazel turned, vines curling gently down her arms. “There’s a storm brewing, Delilah Moonstone. And it isn’t just twisted roots or wayward rogue magic. It’s deeper. Older.”

Delilah’s throat went dry. “I’ve felt it. I just don’t know what it wants. ”

Hazel walked closer, stopping just a few feet away. Her eyes were green—not hazel, ironically—but the kind of green that came from untouched groves and forgotten glades. She smelled like cedar and something wild.

“The forest showed me a vision,” she said. “Of two fates entwined.”

Delilah’s heart skipped. “Mine?”

Hazel nodded. “Yours. And Rollo’s.”

Delilah swallowed. “What kind of vision?”

Hazel reached out, gently touched the back of Delilah’s hand. Her skin was warm, almost humming.

“He will mark you,” Hazel whispered. “Or the woods will claim you both.”

Delilah sucked in a breath. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” Hazel said, voice uncharacteristically unsure. “The threads are tangled. But the choice lies in the binding.”

Delilah shook her head, stepping back. “No. I can’t just… fall into this because the forest says so.”

“Fated doesn’t mean forced, ” Hazel said, repeating Wren’s words. “It means found . But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Or that it’s safe.”

Delilah glanced at the door, heart twisting.

Hazel tilted her head. “You still care about him.”

“That’s the problem,” Delilah whispered.

Hazel gave her hand one last squeeze. “Then you best figure out what you’re willing to risk.”

Then she turned and left, her vines trailing petals in her wake.

Delilah stood there long after the door clicked shut, Hazel’s words blooming like dread in her chest.

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

And somehow, she didn’t know which scared her more.