Page 39 of Where the Roses Bloom (Gospels & Grimoires #1)

She started to rock her hips against me, rolling over me like the tide, slow and sweet. I let my head fall back against the moss as my wife rode me, and I swear I forgot my own damn name.

I didn’t know who I was anymore. Just hers.

The moon watched us, full and bright above the trees.

Her hands braced on my chest, hips circling, thighs trembling, Willow took me like she was born for it—like her body had been waiting its whole life for mine, and mine for hers.

Every time she sank down, I had to grit my teeth from coming too fast, had to breathe through the sheer beauty of her.

“Look at you,” I rasped, palming her hips. “Takin’ me so good. I was made to love you, Willow.”

She nodded, eyes squeezed shut, back arching as her pussy clenched. “Yes…yes…”

I caught her waist, sitting up to kiss her again—kiss her like I needed her to breathe. Our bodies moved together, my hands tracing the length of her spine. “You’re everything to me,” I whispered. “Everything, Willow. You make me wanna believe in forever. ”

She kissed me harder, like she could feel it too—the way the air shimmered around us, thick with roses and memory and hurt and healing. The land had claimed us, sealed us together—and this was our blessing.

“Rhett,” she moaned, voice cracking. “I’m—oh fuck ?—”

“I’ve got you,” I promised, one hand cupping the back of her head as she shattered in my arms. “I’ve always got you.”

She came apart in my arms and, without knowing it was about to happen, I followed right after her—both of us trembling as we held each other tight, my face buried in her neck, feeling her pulse thrum.

Her head dropped to my shoulder and I cradled her close, still inside her, my heart beating so loud it felt like the whole forest could hear it.

My wife.

My Willow.

I pressed a kiss to her damp temple. “You alright?”

She nodded against me, her voice sleepy and spent. “Never been better.”

I smiled, brushing the hair from her face. “Good…’cause I ain’t movin’ a damn inch.”

She giggled, soft and breathy. “You better not. I like you just where you are.”

But before I could say another word, something caught my eye: a light at the base of the Witch Tree.

The spell bottle we’d unearthed was glowing faintly…soft and golden. I frowned, holding Willow with one arm while I reached for the bottle with the other.

“What is it?” she murmured.

“The bottle,” I said. “It’s…different.”

She pulled herself off of me, kneeling beside me to look at the bottle as I righted my clothes. Her fingers closed around the glass, and the glow seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.

And then— click —the wax seal popped free .

The top slid open like it had been waiting.

Willow inhaled sharply, looking into the bottle. I reached out to stop her, terrified of what it might do—but she tipped the contents into her open hand to reveal a twist of red thread, a dried rose petal…

…and a pale golden seed.

With a sprout .

We stared at it in silence—me waiting for Willow to explain, Willow still reeling from whatever we’d done here. The grove seemed to go still with us—no wind, no cicadas, just the hush of moonlight.

And then…they came.

The fireflies.

Not drifting this time, not wandering. They rose in a spiral from the branches of the trees, glowing, dancing, lifting into the night. They swirled around Willow’s hair, kissed her cheeks and shoulders, circled the bottle in her hands like they were offering thanks.

And in that moment, I knew.

Knew what it meant when the wax seal popped free—knew what it meant when the spell released itself: that the caster’s hope had been fulfilled, that something was beginning .

The magic had settled and now it was doing what it was always meant to: protect Willow, heal our hearts, bind us to kindness… and grow something new.

Willow looked up at me with tears in her eyes, and I saw it there—all of it. The ache she’d carried for so long, the wonder of what had just bloomed between us, the quiet, terrible hope that it might actually last.

She looked down at the seed again. “It’s already growing,” she whispered.

I reached out to touch her. “Just like us.”

I kissed her then, slow and deep, tasting salt and magic and everything we’d been too scared to want. And when I pulled back, I rested my forehead against hers.

“We should go back,” I said. “Before someone sends out a search party.”

She snorted. “You mean Delilah starts casting a rescue spell?”

“She’d drag the whole town down here with torches and pitchforks.”

“Do you think she’d save us cake?”

“I think Whit’s probably eating it right now with both hands.”

That made her laugh, the sound soft and warm as summer. “Come on, then,” she said, brushing off her dress and slipping her panties back on. “We should go cut a slice before my brother-in-law licks the frosting.”

I tucked myself back in, stood, and held out my hand. She took it.

We walked back through the fireflies, still glowing faint in the grass, still watching. Like they knew.

Like they were keeping guard.

And maybe they were.

Because tonight, the curse was broken.

And tomorrow?

We’d start planting something new.