I groaned, pushing myself off him and rolling onto my back. The ground was cold beneath me, but it was better than the heat that had flared between us when our bodies collided. For a moment, I just lay there, staring up at the sky as the thorns twisted higher, blocking our view of the forest. They wove tighter and tighter, trapping us inside.
I exhaled slowly, trying to steady my breath, but my heart was still racing—whether from the fall or the feel of him beneath me, I wasn’t sure. I could still feel the ghost of his heartbeat matching mine, the weight of his chest beneath me. Shaking the thought away, I pushed myself up on my elbows and glanced over at him.
Hugo lay beside me, his eyes fixed on the dark wall of thorns, a sardonic smile playing at the corner of his lips. It was infuriating, really—how calm he looked, even now.
“Well,” I muttered, sitting up fully and brushing dirt from my clothes. “I guess I’m staying the night, after all.”
He didn’t respond right away, just watched me as if he knew something I didn’t. His gaze lingered for a second too long, and I felt the heat rising to my cheeks, the memory of our bodies pressed together still fresh in my mind.
Finally, he sat up, dusting off his jacket with infuriating slowness. “I don’t know,” he drawled, his voice teasing. “Maybe I should let you sleep out here with the wolves.”
I rolled my eyes, trying to shake off the tension. “Come on,” I coaxed, trying for lightness. “You can show me your grand library and brag about how just one of your books is worth more than my entire apartment at the college.”
His teasing expression faltered. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said quietly.
I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. How many times had I watched him flaunt his wealth and power back at school, making everyone else feel small?
But then something shifted in his eyes, a flicker of regret I hadn’t expected. “Not anymore,” he mumbled, almost to himself.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. His sudden vulnerability was disarming, catching me off guard.
He cleared his throat and stood, offering me a hand up. “Let me show you to your room.”
I followed him through the front doors and up to the second floor where he led me to a well-appointed room with dark baroque wood carvings and floral bed hangings. It was almost too sweet for such a foreboding estate.
“You’ll be staying here for tonight,” he said from the doorway. “First thing in the morning, we’ll sort out the hedge and send you back to the college.”
A hedge? Was he really calling that monstrosity of dark magic a “hedge”—as if we could simply grab a pair of pruning shears and “sort it out?” And was he so desperate to send me packing?
I thought he would slam the door, but instead, he asked in a formal air, “Is there anything else you require?”
I supposed this behavior had been trained into him since birth. He was descended from wealthy lords. I was an orphan raised by a college. Professors had ruffled my hair and given me candies from their desk drawers. When I was older, they gave me books and asked challenging questions to help grow my mind academically.
My uncle, my legal guardian, was buried in his own work, though he loved me in his distant, hands-off sort of way. If I had a problem, I could have gone to him—though I rarely did.
I wondered what it was like to have a father. I wondered what it was like to lose one, even though Hugo’s had undoubtedly been a monster.
Hugo sighed, looking agitated, and I realized he was awaiting my reply.
“The room is lovely. Are there matches for the hearth?”
He stepped forward and pushed his blackened fingertips toward the logs. The stink of magic filled the air, and it sent me reeling with memories I wished I didn’t have—of the war, of the prison.
“No!” I said sharply.
He stopped, looking back at me with a startled expression.
“Please,” I said in a gentler tone.
He nodded. “As you wish.”
He started to leave but hesitated at the door. Then he sighed and walked back to the fireplace.
My heart hammered. “Wait,” I said weakly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll use the matches. The flue can be tricky to open if you’ve never done it before.” He paused for a moment then added, “I’d hate for the books to be damaged.”
I smiled. If he feared for the three books on the mantel, it would be easy enough to take them with him.
In his well-pressed trousers, he stooped by the grate—something I was certain he had rarely done in his boyhood, growing up in an estate filled with servants, most of them fae like me. With his schoolwork, he had always been meticulous too. He stacked the kindling, opened the flue, then struck the first match. A small flame blossomed in the hearth, and he blew on it. The fire roared to life.
He stood and made his way to the door.
“Thank you,” I called after him.
He inclined his head. “One more thing. Don’t leave your room until first light. It’s not safe.”
“What do you mean it isn’t-”
He didn’t answer my question. Instead, he let the door click shut between us.
* * *
Of course, I didn’t stay in my room. Hours later, I found myself drawn to the library—my entire reason for coming in the first place.
Only, when I pushed the heavy door open, I saw him. He was slumped in an armchair, gazing into the fire. He looked unguarded, his features shadowed with exhaustion and something else—something I couldn’t name. Haunted, maybe.
I stepped back quietly, letting the door close with a soft click. I’d come back in the morning.
When I returned, I found him still in the same chair, fast asleep. Two empty bourbon glasses sat on the side table, remnants of a long, lonely night. Even in sleep, his expression was grim, as if the weight of the world followed him into his dreams.
For a moment, I stood there, taking in the sight of him. Like his house, he seemed worn down, trapped beneath layers of sorrow and ruin.
I shut the door again and left him in peace.
There would be no academic research happening today, but there were other mysteries demanding my attention. I had suspected the estate might be in decline, and now I was sure of it. Both the library and the grounds were slowly crumbling under the weight of neglect—and something else. A magic unraveling.
The logical place to start was the hedge.
The decay of magic is a fascinating subject, after all—one rarely documented in scholarly journals. And a house that seemed determined to trap its inhabitants? I couldn’t resist the urge to know more.
I wandered the grounds, checking for gaps in the hedge of thorns. Along the way, I stumbled upon my dappled mare, chewing clover as if nothing had happened. Relief washed over me, and I stroked her soft muzzle, grateful she had made it safely out of the forest.
Then I continued my inspection of the thorn hedge. Everything was far more visible by daylight. I could see now that the towering thorns were no ordinary brush; they belonged to ancient rose bushes. Now, under the sun, I noticed the hidden red blossoms, blooming like warning signs.
Why roses?
I stepped closer, curiosity tugging at me. I knew this perimeter wasn’t Hugo’s design—he wanted nothing more than my immediate departure from his estate.
Which meant the magic here was slipping from his control.
As I leaned in, the petals shimmered in the light. Something dark caught my eye.
Blood.
My pulse spiked. I took a step back, but the thorns snagged my hem, dragging me down in a graceless fall. Pain shot through my ankle as sharp as a dagger.
I twisted, clawing at the thorns, but they tightened—creeping closer, wrapping around me like a serpent with no intention of letting go.
“Help!” I cried, panic swelling in my chest.
Within moments, Hugo was there. He grabbed my arms with steady hands, his voice low and urgent.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned. Then he yanked me backward, tearing me free from the thorns with sheer force.
I gasped as they scraped across my legs, but the sudden sting was nothing compared to the relief of being free.
When I tried to stand, pain shot through my ankle, and I crumpled again.
Hugo groaned softly, as if dealing with me was the last thing he needed, and without another word, scooped me into his arms. The effortless way he carried me was startling—like a bride, no less.
He brought me to the library, which I was beginning to suspect was more than just a room—it was his sanctuary. He set me gently in the chair beside the one he’d slept in the night before.
Then, without hesitation, he reached toward my ankle with those blackened fingertips of his.
I flinched.
“I won’t hurt you,” he murmured, his voice strangely tender. “The war…”
I swallowed, my heart thudding in my chest. “The war,” I echoed.
His gaze flicked to mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—guilt, regret, maybe even shame.
“It’ll heal,” I said quickly. “Fae breaks are nearly always clean. A few days and it’ll be good as new. No magic needed.”
He gave a small, curt nod, then rose to his feet. Without another word, he left the room.
I watched him go, my heart still racing from the encounter.
And for the first time since arriving, I wondered just how much of this crumbling estate—its thorny borders, its unraveling magic—was tied to Hugo himself.