EMELINE SANK INTO THE hot bathwater, her blood brimming with whatever spell lay dormant inside her, put there by Nettle’s enchanted drink. She intended to hide here, in her bath, until her skin turned wrinkled and white.
Until she soaked the spell out.
When the water finally grew tepid, Emeline lifted herself from the tub. As she toweled her hair dry, muffled laughter drifted through the walls between her rooms and Pa’s.
Odd. She tilted her head to listen. Who was visiting Pa at this hour?
The laughter came again. Wrapping herself in a silk robe that ended just above her knees, she padded barefoot across the floor, leaving puddles in her wake, and stood at the door leading to her grandfather’s rooms.
After silently turning the crystal knob, she opened the door to listen.
“Who are you again?” she heard Pa say.
A rough-soft reply followed. “I’m Hawthorne.”
Emeline froze.
Peering through the crack, she spotted both Pa and the tithe collector sitting in two armchairs facing the fire. They held steaming mugs in their hands.
It stunned her.
What was the tithe collector doing with her grandfather?
He’s visiting a friend, Aspen had told her.
“Well, Hawthorne. Have you ever stopped to wonder: What’s the point?”
Emeline winced. It was Pa’s most-asked question. He’d probably asked it three times already while she was in the bath. But if he had, Hawthorne was unbothered.
“I do wonder that,” he said, surprising her. Usually people checked out the second time Pa asked it. “All the time, in fact.”
“Have you come up with anything good?” Pa leaned in as if they were old friends sharing a secret.
Hawthorne smiled, too, mirroring Pa. He sipped his drink before answering, “There’s this book I’ve been rereading lately. More of a long poem, really. It’s called Beowulf. Do you know it?”
Pa shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Well, there’s a phrase in Latin, ubi sunt, which describes the spirit of the poem. It translates to a question. Something like: Where have they gone?”
Emeline’s heart hammered in her chest as she listened. What, exactly, was happening here? Was the Wood King’s henchman … hanging out with her grandfather? Discussing poetry with him?
“Where has who gone?” asked Pa.
“The ones who’ve come before us,” said Hawthorne. “In Beowulf, ubi sunt means … or at least, I think it means … ‘What’s the point of courage? Of fighting off monsters? Of doing your best? What’s the point of any of it, if we’re all going to die in the end?’”
Pa sat back in his chair, pensive.
“It’s not an answer to your question,” Hawthorne said, raising his mug. “But it means you and I aren’t alone in our quest.”
Pa lifted his mug, clinking it against Hawthorne’s.
When he yawned a moment later, Hawthorne drained his drink. “It’s late. I should be going.”
Pa nodded as they both rose to their feet.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? How often did he visit?
The way Hawthorne smiled at her grandfather, so full of admiration and respect, made Emeline’s pulse kick. She gripped the knob of the door until her knuckles hurt. The boys she’d brought home in the past never treated Pa like this—like someone they wanted to be friends with. Like someone worthy of the utmost respect.
With her heart pounding in her ears, she shut the door before they saw her, then leaned her back against it, her entire body crackling and alert as she listened to Pa walk him out.
Soon, she heard Hawthorne’s footsteps echo in the hall. Emeline tightened the sash of her silk robe and went after him.
Outside her rooms, she saw him several paces down the candlelit corridor, the small flames illuminating his dark form.
“Hawthorne, wait.…”
His footsteps slowed.
Still dripping from her bath, her wet feet padded against the cold marble. As he turned, she stopped abruptly and slipped. Hawthorne reached for her elbow, steadying her.
He wore a dark green sweater tonight, the color complementing his skin tone. Like spruce trees in late autumn.
“Emeline. What are—”
His gaze fell instantly to her bruised throat. Storm clouds moved swiftly in and a sharp line appeared between his brows as he studied the marks on her skin. Stepping towards her, he lifted his hand, silently asking permission.
She gave it, baring her throat to him. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
His fingers traced her bruises, achingly tender as they glided down her neck. Emeline’s heart beat strangely fast beneath his touch.
“Do you have to be so reckless?” It sounded like more of a plea than a question.
“Maybe it’s in my nature.”
He moved closer, bringing his fire-like warmth with him. “Maybe so.” He cupped the back of her neck with his palm, fingers sliding through the small hairs there as he raised her chin with his thumb, continuing to examine her. “You should be far away from here, Emeline Lark. Somewhere safe.”
“Hmm,” she said in vague agreement. When his thumb stroked softly along her jaw, her blood sparked, and she whimpered. Mistaking the sound, he withdrew his hands and stepped back.
Before he could turn and leave, she reached for his forearm. “Wait. I came to thank you.”
His brow knit. “If this is about the letter…”
She shook her head no, remembering the sight of him before the fire, enjoying Pa’s company. “You treat my grandfather like he’s important.”
Silence descended between them.
His voice went soft and careful. “He is important.”
Emeline closed her eyes at those words, afraid he’d see what they did to her.
She shouldn’t like this boy. Shouldn’t like the sound of his stubborn voice, or the startling gentleness of his touch, or the heady strength of his presence. Hawthorne Fell was not for her. He did the Wood King’s bidding. He was from another world.
He was definitely not boyfriend material.
And Emeline was with Joel. Sort of.
Most important: this was a nightmare she was getting out of very soon. As soon as she saved Pa, Emeline would leave this behind and return to her regular life.
Hawthorne’s gaze swept slowly over her. Lingering on her wet hair, trailing across her collarbone, then skimming downwards to take in the sheer silk robe clinging to her curves, revealing too much.
Or, from the look flaring in his eyes, revealing exactly enough.
A startling warmth bloomed in her belly, followed by a strange sweetness in her throat. Like honey and flowers.
Emeline’s senses heightened. She was suddenly fully aware of his pine-forest scent infusing the air, of just how close he stood to her.
The heat in her belly turned to fire.
Shit.
Nettle’s enchantment.
“You’re shivering,” he said, frowning.
Shivering? Emeline felt hot with fever. She peered down to find her skin covered in goose bumps.
“It’s cold out here. You should go back to your rooms, where it’s warmer.”
Come with me, she thought.
She wrestled the thought into a cage. He’s right: go back. You’re not in control of yourself.
Hawthorne was saying something else, but the words blurred in her ears. She heard her name, and the enchantment tightened around her, wrapping her up in a slow, silvery web.
I’m about to completely humiliate myself, she realized.
But instead of stepping back, she stepped closer, drawn to him like a bee to pollen. Unable to help herself.
“Hawthorne?”
He fell quiet as her palms skimmed up his chest, over the fine wool of his sweater. His fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist, but he didn’t stop her. He didn’t say a word.
Warn him. Now. Before it’s too late.
Emeline leaned in. The bridge of her nose slowly grazed the edge of his jaw. Hawthorne drew in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening around her wrist.
“Hawthorne, there’s something I—”
Before she could finish, his free hand slid behind her neck. Emeline melted beneath the heat of it. He bent his head to hers, eyes dark with desire, and the sight of it—the wanting—snapped something inside her.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him.
Hawthorne didn’t hesitate; his kiss burned through her like wildfire. Her body blazed with it. But instead of quenching her greedy hunger, it made her ravenous.
She pushed him back against the hall wall, running her hands along his shoulders, feeling the bones and muscles there. He captured her waist with one arm, dragging her against him, needing her closer. His free hand trembled as he traced her jaw and throat and collarbone, as if searing her into his memory. As if she were a balm for some hidden ache.
As Emeline deepened the kiss, though, Hawthorne suddenly went rigid, pulling back like he tasted something bitter. His fingers dug into her shoulders, wrenching her away.
Emeline sucked in a ragged breath. Forced out of a dream she would much rather remain in, she reached for him, wanting it back.
“No,” he said. “I can taste it on you.”
She blinked, trying to get this crazed yearning under control.
“You’re enchanted.” His gaze was thunderous. “Who did this?”
But Emeline didn’t care. She wanted his kisses back. Wanted those warm, strong hands on her …
“Emeline.” His grip on her shoulders tightened, and it made the fire in her roar louder. “Give me a name.”
“Nettle,” she murmured, her skin hot in all the places he’d touched her. “She gave me a drink.”
Hawthorne’s eyes blackened.
“I’m going to kill her.”