Page 29

CLARA

T he cabin’s inside is warm and small, like being wrapped in living wood. Thorne stares at the walls, looking bewildered and out of place. He is mine in this moment, and I almost laugh at how he stands so rigid, like towering trees against a fragile roof.

I reach for his hand, leading him to the small bed pressed against the wall—one of the cabin’s few comforts. Thorne watches me with wide eyes, as if I’m asking him to navigate a wildfire with a map made of thorns.

I lean forward and kiss him softly.

His hesitation falls away, and suddenly, he is everywhere. His hands are rough and calloused, so gentle against my skin. He kisses me slowly, as if exploring, memorizing each breath and curve.

We sit on the bed, facing each other. He takes my face in his hands, staring into my eyes.

“Clara,” he whispers, voice gravel and soft earth.

“Thorne,” I breathe back.

It’s enough.

It’s everything.

Clothes become unneeded. They scatter to the floor.

He is careful, so careful, as if I were a rare bloom that might crumble at the slightest touch. He hangs back, as though waiting for guidance in this unfamiliar indoor space, but I am patient.

“I don’t need poetry,” I tell him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I need you.”

He laces his fingers with mine, pinning them above us, and then... then he stops hesitating.

There is no witty banter, no jokes, only gentle urgency as we learn each other, find each other, become one.

He moves with purpose.

Slow.

Then fast.

I grasp at him, nails digging in just to feel how real he is, how alive he is.

Not hidden in the shadows, not bound to roots, but with me, whole.

He growls my name, and I do not recognize my own voice in response.

In this moment, nothing exists outside the two of us.

Fire builds in my veins, and his breath comes faster, harsher. Words are lost to us, but we don’t need them.

I gasp and tremble and cry out.

He follows, a soft moan escaping him, and he rests his forehead against mine, panting.

Still connected.

Still holding hands.

For the first time, I know, we are not almost-goodbye.

We are rooted.

Entangled.

Home.

I whisper that word, and he kisses me again—sweetly, tenderly.

Everything is sharp clarity and rough edges, softened by fatigue and love.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I breathe against his lips, fingers trailing down his chest.

His eyes shine with relief, and he pulls me close.

We lay together, wrapped in blankets, listening to the rhythm of our hearts.

Outside, autumn rustles, but inside, we are safe and warm.

More than that.

We are alive.

We are free.

The dim light flickers, casting shifting shadows as Thorne removes his own shirt, his skin glowing with the faint vine-like patterns under the surface. His muscles are taut, etched with the energy of a hundred summers.

We are tangled in each other, skin to skin. He runs his hands over my curves, and I let myself be undressed, piece by piece.

"Clara," he breathes, as if tasting the shape of my name. "You are more vibrant than the most exotic bloom."

His fingers trace the contours of my breasts, my hips, my thighs. I gasp at each touch, the sensation electric, grounding me in the moment. His hands are careful, but his need is palpable.

He kisses me with a fierce tenderness, lips trailing down my neck, teeth grazing my shoulders. I arch into him, nails digging into the hard planes of his back. Our breath mingles—short, sharp, desperate.

“I need you,” I whisper, and it seems to ignite him.

He nudges my knees apart, and his fingers find my wet heat. I bite my lip, trying to muffle a sound that is part moan, part sigh. He touches me slowly, methodically, with the precision of a gardener tending their most cherished plants. My hips shift to meet him, seeking more.

I drown in sensation, fingers clutching the sheets, his skin, anything to anchor me.

When his fingers withdraw, I whimper in protest, only to have his lips replace them, exploring me with a familiar reverence.

I lose any sense of thought, of self. There is only Thorne. Only this. Only burning, building, blossoming.

And when his cock enters me, it is with a careful slowness, as if he is afraid of shattering something fragile.

"Clara," he murmurs, voice rough, "you feel?—"

But I can’t let him finish. Can't let this become too tender, too sweet. I nip at his shoulder, urging him on with my hips. "Harder," I whisper.

He groans, rolling his hips deep, deeper, and I lose myself in the rhythm. Our bodies are a dance, a battle, a blend of need and give and take.

Thorne’s jaw clenches with restraint, but his movements are fierce and purposeful. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, craving every bit of contact.

His thrusts become harder, faster. I gasp his name, over and over, fingers clutching at the muscles of his back, the back of his neck.

He glances down at me, and I find those eyes void of thorny shadows, no longer bound to latent violence. Only need. A need that echoes my own.

He sweeps a strand of hair from my face, his gentle touch incongruous with our urgent coupling.

I am pulled apart, rewoven. Fire builds within me, sharp and brilliant.

I kiss Thorne's shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin.

My body trembles, not from the cold, not from the void pulling at me, but from the sheer intensity of every touch, every movement, drawing me deeper into him.

He drives into me with powerful, rhythmic thrusts, each one filling me until I'm gasping his name, clinging to him for dear life.

The rhythm grows frantic, a wild dance of need and desperation as we chase that final crescendo.

“Thorne,” I gasp, voice breaking. “You’re everywhere. I need—I need?—”

"Me too," he growls, teeth scraping against my collarbone. "Clara, you're?—"

He shifts, grips my hips with iron strength, and slams into me so hard that I cry out.

My insides clench around him, everything in me coiling and building toward an explosion I know is about to come.

The world narrows to the two of us, the smell of sweat and earth, the sound of ragged breaths and skin sliding against skin.

He grunts, a guttural sound that reverberates through me, and my hands find the back of his neck, pulling him down to my lips.

We kiss deeply, messy and wet, and when I come, I come with a sob, nails digging into his back hard enough to leave marks.

Thorne buries his face in my neck, muffling his own groan as he finds his own release inside me.

We stay like that, heaving breaths, bodies still joined. He does not pull away, but slowly collapses against me, cocooning me in his warmth and weight. I stroke the nape of his neck, not wanting to move, to let this moment slip away.

"Thorne," I whisper after a moment. My voice sounds small, fragile.

He lifts his head, concern flickering in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

I nod, unable to find words that capture what I'm feeling. "Stay," I manage. "Just stay with me."

He brushes his lips against mine, sweet and lingering, and then settles beside me, still half-covering me, as if he can't bear to be apart. We lay there, tangled in each other, and it's as much a claim as any vow spoken. His body tells me all I need to know, even if we don’t have the words.

Outside the cabin, the storm is growing. The wind howls through the trees, and lightning brightens the room for a second. I feel it in the shudder that runs through Thorne, his earth magic reacting to the electricity in the air. I hug him closer, anchoring us both in the dark.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “You’re safe here.”

He nuzzles my hair. “We’re safe here.”

Safe together. And for now, that’s enough.

But beneath my bliss, a tiny, gnawing thought bites at me:

How long can we have this?

What happens when the storm arrives and the hivemind comes back to claim me?

But for now, with Thorne’s heart beating against my chest, I push the thought away.

For now, we have this.

We can be enough.