EMELINE WAS THIRTEEN WHEN her tree went missing.
It was a crisp April morning, and everything was frosted with dew. She woke to find Pa on the balcony, staring at the woods, his face marred by a frown.
“They took it,” he murmured. She couldn’t tell if it was anger that tinged his voice, or fear.
When she looked where he looked—to the space in the hedge—she realized he was talking about her tree.
Which was gone.
They. The things in the woods, he meant. It wasn’t a tithing month, though. So why would the Wood King take it?
When Pa left the house for the vineyards, Emeline didn’t walk to the bus stop. Instead, despite the warnings of her neighbors, despite their stories clanging through her mind, she went into the woods, looking. As if, maybe, she could find the Wood King and convince him to return her special tree.
But the deeper she went, the woods shifted and changed around her, until they were no longer the woods bordering Edgewood, but something else. The trees were too big and grand, the birdcalls too strange. And the cloying scent of magic was everywhere.
What if she never found her way out?
She didn’t find her tree. But something found her. Emeline was lost by the time it seized her, clamping its hand hard over her mouth to stop her scream.
“Be still,” her captor whispered. “Unless you’d prefer to be eaten.”
Emeline couldn’t see her captor’s face, only felt him nod towards the river, where a long night-dark shadow was creeping along the dewy bank between the budding trees. It had no eyes and long, sharp talons.
She decided to take her chances with the stranger at her back.
Slowly, his hand fell away from her mouth. Just as slowly, his fingers twined through hers, tugging her quickly through the woods, silent as a tree, until they stepped through the hedge back in Edgewood.
“What’s your name?” she asked, turning to memorize his features: maple-dark hair, earth-brown skin, river-rock eyes. He looked roughly the same age as she was.
“Promise to stay out of the woods,” he said, memorizing her back, “and I’ll tell you.”
But now that Emeline knew there weren’t just horrors in those trees, she wasn’t so sure she could promise that.
“There are things in this forest that will hurt you,” he said.
“You’re in the forest,” she pointed out. “And you didn’t hurt me.”
“No,” he agreed. “But other things will.”
Emeline canted her head. “If I stay away, how will I find you again?”
A smile tipped his mouth to the side as he ducked his chin, lowering his gaze. “I’ll find you.”
“Then I promise,” she said. “Now tell me your name.”
He paused for a moment, as if he was thinking hard about it. Very softly, he said, “I’m Hawthorne.”
HAWTHORNE CAME BACK OFTEN. Soon, his friends tagged along: a shy, sharp-edged girl named Sable and a mischievous boy named Rooke. They were shiftlings from the King’s City, deep in the woods. They told her stories of fiery, stampeding ember mares. Of a curmudgeonly dragon forged from stone. More quietly, they spoke about shadow skins and the Vile and the Stain. About a curse that was eating the woods.
Their stories infected her. She wanted to see this world for herself.
But every time she asked, they glanced down and shook their heads.
“Humans aren’t allowed anymore. It’s too dangerous.”
Soon, Sable started visiting on her own. Emeline introduced the girl to all her favorite albums. They’d spend weekends listening to music in her bedroom, gorging themselves on Maisie’s apple strudel. Sable especially liked to watch Tom in his forge, working with copper and silver and iron. Sometimes Tom taught Sable how to make things from metal, while Emeline wrote songs on the lawn.
One day, when they were fifteen, Emeline invited Sable to watch her sing at a café not far from Edgewood. The owners needed someone to play live music, and Pa’s friend Corny—who was their favorite regular—couldn’t stop raving about Emmie Lark and her magic voice. So they asked Emeline to come and play.
Tonight was a trial run: if they and their customers liked her music, she could come every Thursday night. They’d even let her put out a tip jar.
Emeline was terrified.
What if she fumbled her chords or forgot her lyrics? What if no one listened or clapped? What if they hated her songs?
“I can’t come,” said Sable, looking forlorn. “I’m sorry.”
“Shiftlings can’t go past the borderlands,” Rooke explained.
So Emeline went alone.
She arrived at the café early to set up. The owners gave her free peppermint tea and ginger cookies. Emeline checked and double-checked her mic, then her amp. She tuned and retuned her ukulele. She was so nervous, she felt like throwing up.
All of a sudden, it was seven o’clock.
Time to sing.
“Hi,” she said a little too quietly, into the mic, staring out at the tables full of people sipping coffees and digging forks into their desserts. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Um. I’m Emeline Lark and … um … I’ll be playing some songs tonight.”
Obviously. That’s why she was sitting on a stool with a ukulele!
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
A few people paused their conversations to look up at her. Others kept talking. At the very back, Emeline saw Grace Abel sitting alone near the window. Her head was bent over a notebook and her hand moved furiously across the page. Studying, probably. Emeline and Grace weren’t in any of the same classes at school, because Grace was in the most advanced ones.
“This song is about my best friend.” She’d written it for Sable a few months ago. “I, um…” Oh my god! Stop saying “um”! “I hope you like it.”
More people looked away, resuming their conversations.
Maybe I can’t do this, she thought. Maybe I should say I’m sick and go home. Save myself the humiliation, and spare these poor people.
But there was someone at the back still watching her. Someone who hadn’t looked away since she first started talking. A boy with dark hair. He leaned back, one elbow looped around his chair, finger marking his spot in a book, not taking his eyes off her.
Hawthorne Fell.
Emeline hadn’t even told him about tonight. Had Sable?
It didn’t matter. She had someone to play for.
Emeline started to strum, then sing. She stared at Hawthorne—the one person in the room who gave her his full attention—focusing only on the warm pleasure in his eyes as he listened.
She immediately hit her stride. Her voice didn’t falter. Her fingers didn’t tremble. She flew through the songs breezily, as if she were back on the farm with Sable stretched out in the grass beside her.
One after another, heads turned towards her. Conversations grew quiet. People started tapping their toes and bobbing their heads. Even Grace stopped studying to listen.
Emeline kept her eyes on Hawthorne, fearing that if she unhooked her gaze from the one steady thing in this room she might lose her way.
Halfway through her set, after she’d switched out her ukulele for her guitar, another arrival was marked by an earthy, mulchy scent blooming through the air. With it came the faint but steady beat—like that of an ancient heart—thudding beneath the soles of her feet. Keeping time with her songs.
The woods came gently. Respectfully. Like an old friend showing its admiration and support. Their looming presence kept to the edges of the room, listening to her play, and by the time Emeline finished her last song and set her guitar down on its stand she noticed three tiny ferns growing up through the floor, unfurling around her feet.
It was the first time the woods ever came to hear her play.
By the time Emeline finished packing up her gear, the owners had asked her to come back next week. They even gave her cookies for the road.
When she stepped outside, she found Hawthorne leaning against the hood of Pa’s truck, waiting for her. Pa, who’d come to pick her up, was inside chatting with some neighbors.
“Hi,” said Hawthorne, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He wore pale jeans and a charcoal-gray shirt.
“Hi,” she said back, feeling shy now that she’d spent her entire set staring at him from across the café. After hoisting her instruments into the back seat, she said, “Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to do that.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I wanted to.”
A fluttering warmth rushed through her. Like startled butterflies.
It had been like this for a while with Hawthorne. Strange and awkward; stilted conversations full of long pauses; lots of avoiding of eyes.
She shut the door, blushing hard. “Do you want a ride back?” Pa wouldn’t mind.
He hesitated, then pointed to a bicycle locked to a nearby tree. “I have one.”
“Right.” Was that too forward? Offering a ride? “I’ll see you around, then. I guess.”
She opened the passenger side door. Hawthorne pushed off from the hood. But instead of stepping away, he stepped closer, his hand curling around the top of the door as she climbed in.
“You were incredible up there.”
She looked up. But Hawthorne had already turned away and was walking towards his bicycle.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her heart beating fast.
WHEN SHE WAS SIXTEEN, Tom bought Emeline tickets to see one of her favorite bands, Death Valley’s Little Sister, play in Toronto. But he sprained his ankle a day before the show.
She had an extra ticket, and since Sable couldn’t come, she invited Hawthorne.
As the thick crowd surged towards them, drawn to the stage where Death Valley played, Hawthorne bumped into Emeline. His chest pressed up against her back, sending a jolt down her spine.
She looked over her shoulder to find him scowling at the drunk kids flailing all over the place. Positioning himself between them and Emeline, he leaned in. “Are you all right?”
He’d never been to a concert before. But Emeline was used to shows where the crowd pushed in too close and the only thing to do was hold your ground. Or push back.
She nodded. “I’m good.”
A few songs later, the tension in him eased. He stood so close now, Emeline could smell the forest on his skin. It overrode the smell of spilled beer and sweating bodies. She liked the heat of him behind her, warm as sunlight. She liked the way his heart pounded against her spine, louder than the drums.
She was suddenly so aware of him, she stopped focusing on the music. She glanced at several couples around them, noticing how close they stood. What would it feel like to have Hawthorne’s arms wrapped around her like that? To be pulled snug against his body? To feel his chin rest on top of her head?
She never found out. Soon, the concert was over, and they were on the train heading home.
Emeline wanted that moment back, so she invited him to the next concert.
And the next.
Each time, he stood a little bit closer.
One night, they were walking back to Union Station from a small, cramped venue called Certain Dark Things. Drunk on the lights and sounds and electric hum of the city, Emeline declared: “I want to do that one day.”
Hawthorne looked away from the lit-up buildings around them, his face awash in colors. “Hmm?” he said, as if he’d been deep in thought.
“Make music my life.” Traffic honked from the street as they waited for a stoplight to change. She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if admitting some dirty secret. “I can’t sleep sometimes, I’m so full of longing. To sing my songs up on a stage. To see my name on a marquee.”
Hawthorne watched her closely.
“You will.”
He said it like it was a fact. As if it were destined.
The light changed. Stunned by his belief in her, Emeline started walking, then realized he wasn’t beside her. She turned back to find him still on the sidewalk, transfixed by the sight of a storefront.
A bookstore, she realized, coming back to his side. A used one.
The Open sign was turned face out.
Books were one of Hawthorne’s two great loves, she’d learned from their train ride conversations to and from the city. The other was art.
He pressed his forehead to the glass as he squinted, reading the spines of the antiquated books in the window.
Emeline opened the door for him.
“But we’ll miss our train,” he said, glancing at her.
“There’s another one leaving in an hour.”
He smiled like a kid who’d been given permission to pick out a treat. As he stepped through the door, his hand brushed hers as he passed. She followed him in.
They split up immediately, Emeline wandering over to the music section, Hawthorne weaving towards the fiction section. Half an hour later, she found him in Poetry.
“Listen,” he said, reaching for her wrist distractedly, eyes on the page of the book as he pulled her closer. Holding the Dark, the title read. By a poet named Melanie Cameron. Emeline leaned back against the shelves, watching him.
“‘I didn’t know it would go like this,’” he recited. “‘I didn’t know I would find you in the dark…’”
Emeline stared at his mouth, captivated by the cadence of his voice. His expression was hungry as he read on, as if he’d discovered some delicious secret and wanted to feed it to her. Like a ripe red strawberry dipped in chocolate.
“When I lie against you with my eyes closed,
I bring your body with me,
into the darkness,
I bring your whole body inside me.
And in that darkness I know you
so much better than hands and mouth can know,
I know you,
as though you were the darkness inside me.”
He glanced up from the page, fixing her in place with that same hungry gaze. Warmth pooled in her belly.
“It’s nice,” she murmured.
He raised an eyebrow. “Nice?” The corner of his mouth turned up as he lifted his hand, bracing it against the shelf beside her.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Pretty, then.”
“How about tender. And…” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Intimate.”
There was the oddest feeling in Emeline’s chest. Like a million tiny stars on the cusp of bursting. Sparks crackled in the air between them. Hawthorne seemed about to lean in, to close the gap, when the bookseller called from farther down the aisle, saying the shop was closing in five minutes.
Hawthorne straightened and stepped back.
The sparks fizzled out.
ONE LATE-OCTOBER DAY, EMELINE found Sable and Rooke teasing Hawthorne on the grass beside Eshe and Abel’s pond. Hawthorne’s sketchbook lay open between them, and Rooke was shaking with laughter as he flopped onto his back.
Hawthorne rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh?” Rooke sat up, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “What’s it like then?”
Emeline, who’d left to fetch a jug of homemade sun tea and Maisie’s cinnamon buns, had clearly missed something good.
“Drawing a human model is no different than drawing a bowl of fruit. There’s no … It’s not like that,” he repeated.
“Right,” said Rooke, elbowing Sable in the ribs as he winked at Emeline. “Uh-huh.”
Sable leaned in towards Hawthorne, a smile quirking her mouth. “You’re saying there’s absolutely no difference between an apple and a naked woman?”
A naked woman?
At the edge of the pond’s bank, brown cattails rustled and bobbed in the breeze. It was mid-autumn, and likely one of the last warm days. Emeline set the basket of food down on the blue quilt, then wandered over to where Hawthorne’s sketchbook lay open between Sable and Rooke.
On the page was a youngish woman, extremely pretty, and entirely nude. She was straddling a chair that was faced the wrong way. Her arms were crossed over the chair back and her legs were bent on either side, with her bare feet pressed flat to the floor. Her bold chin tilted upwards as she half closed her eyes, looking down on the viewer.
Emeline thought of Hawthorne’s gaze tracing every inch of this woman’s body. His pencil marking her every curve and hollow.
Jealousy bit her, sinking its teeth in.
She flipped the pages. There were more sketches of this same person in other poses. Sketches of other models too—men and women, young and old, round and thin.
But her thoughts kept going back to the first.
“I’ve been taking life drawing classes,” Hawthorne explained, not quite looking at Emeline as he pulled the sketchbook away and shut it tight, holding it to his chest. “I saw a poster a few months ago, when we were in the city for a concert.”
Rooke was trembling, trying to hold in his laughter.
Hawthorne shot him a piercing look. “You’re being awfully immature. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to draw the human form?”
For some reason, this only made Rooke laugh harder. Sable, too, burst into giggles.
Hawthorne threw up his hands. “It’s just practice! It’s how you get better!”
Giving up on his two friends, he turned to Emeline.
“Anyways. The class is over for the season. It won’t start up again until January.”
“Oh, whatever will he do?” Rooke crowed.
Hawthorne shook his head.
Suddenly smelling the cinnamon buns, fresh from the oven, Sable and Rooke stood up, still howling as they wandered over to the basket on the quilt.
Emeline couldn’t stop seeing the woman on the page, staring her down, a challenge in her heavy-lidded eyes. When Rooke and Sable were out of hearing distance, Emeline heard herself say, “I could pose for you.”
Hawthorne turned his head sharply towards her.
Oh god.
Why did she say that?
“I m-mean, unless that’s weird,” she stammered, feeling her face flame. “I just … um … if your class is over and you still wanted to … practice.”
The wind whipped her hair. She tucked the loose strands behind her ears, wishing she could make herself disappear.
Hawthorne turned fully towards her, his gaze tracing her face. “It’s not weird.”
She glanced up, staring into those mismatched eyes. “Are you sure?”
As Rooke and Sable stuffed their faces over on the quilt, Hawthorne studied her. “Very sure,” he said, voice quiet.
The butterflies were back, fluttering through her. She chewed her lip and glanced to her grandfather’s farmhouse in the distance. “We can’t do it here. If Pa were to find us…”
The thought of Pa accidently walking in on them made her stomach twist. It would be … very bad. Pa would lock her up and not let her out of the house until she turned thirty. He would definitely murder Hawthorne. Or at least chase him across the farm with a very big shovel.
Hawthorne nodded, seeing her point. “You can come to my house.”
She frowned up at him, planting her hands in the cool green grass. “In the King’s City? I thought it isn’t allowed.” She knew the king no longer permitted those from beyond the woods into his city, on account of a curse.
“It isn’t allowed. We’ll need to be careful. I’ll have to sneak you in.”
A tiny thrill whooshed down her spine.
“Are you available tomorrow night?”
Emeline’s stomach flip-flopped.
I’ll make myself available, she thought, remembering the woman in his sketchbook, yearning to be drawn like that by Hawthorne. His pencil marking out the curves and hollows of her body. His eyes looking at her—all of her—for as long as he liked.
“Hungry?” said Rooke, holding out what appeared to be the last two cinnamon buns to Emeline and Hawthorne.
She was hungry.
But not for cinnamon buns.
To Hawthorne, she whispered, “I’ll meet you tomorrow night at the tree line.”
The next night, Hawthorne gave her a hooded cloak to wear over her clothes, then smuggled her into the city through a magical entry point. One moment, they were standing in a copse of trees; the next, they were stepping into an alley, surrounded by cracked white walls creeping with green moss.
He’d kept his hand pressed to the small of her back as they walked quickly through the lamplit streets. Emeline snuck glances at the dark city around them, her pulse racing with fear and excitement as she took in the white row houses, the rust-red rooftops, the cobbles beneath her feet. Hawthorne kept close to her whenever someone passed, pulling her hood farther over her face.
And, suddenly, here they were.
Inside his house.
A fire roared in the hearth and before it lay a plush white carpet. Hawthorne stood to the side, setting up his easel, while Emeline hovered around the long table near the windows, humming with nervous energy.
She took off her yellow cardigan first, folding it slowly and placing it on the table. After she took a deep breath, her fingers touched, then fell away from the buttons down the front of her sky-blue sundress.
Is this a mistake? she wondered. What if it ruined things between them? What if they couldn’t go back to being friends after this?
I don’t want to go back to being friends, she realized.
“Are you all right?”
She glanced up to find Hawthorne watching her. “Um.” Her fingers froze on the uppermost button. “Yes?”
But even she could hear the lie in her voice.
He straightened, his expression softening. “We don’t have to do this. You can change your mind.” He walked over, reaching for her folded yellow cardigan. “Maybe this was a bad idea.…”
In her mind, Emeline could see him folding up the easel and putting it away. Taking her back to Edgewood. Never bringing her here again.
“I want to,” she said, undoing the first button of her dress.
His eyes dropped to her fingers. Something flickered across his face.
“Do you … want help?” He sounded a little out of breath.
Emeline’s heart skipped. Yes, she thought, dropping her hands to her sides. I want all the help.
Taking this as permission, he reached for the buttons. Emeline’s breath quickened as his fingers brushed her bare skin, working downwards. When he’d unfastened enough to realize she wasn’t wearing a bra, his breath drew in and his fingers paused. She could see the pulse in his throat pick up speed.
The dress was loose enough now to pull over her head. Emeline could easily finish this herself.
But she didn’t.
She liked watching him move down her, unfastening her clothes. Liked watching the effect it had on him.
When he undid the final button, he glanced up. As he held her gaze, his warm hands slid purposefully beneath the blue fabric and over her skin, along her collarbone, pushing the dress slowly off her shoulders until it fell down to the floor.
When she stood naked before him, Hawthorne’s gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t greedily take her in. Instead, he kept his eyes on her face as he held out his hand. She took it.
His palm was warm and strong and steady against hers as he led her towards the fire. But she could feel the ragged pulse beating beneath his skin.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked when he let go, digging her bare toes into the fluffy white carpet.
“Try … lying down?”
Nodding, she lowered herself into the softness and warmth of the carpet.
They tried several poses. Hawthorne stood at a distance, looking for the best angle, making suggestions. Emeline shifted, crooking her knee, bending her elbow beneath her head. But she was too tense and stiff.
“I could strip off my clothes and stand here naked too,” he said, sensing her nervousness. “If it would help.”
Emeline laughed, certain it would do the opposite, and glanced at him.
“There.” His eyes darkened as his attention swept over her. “That’s perfect.”
She felt vulnerable suddenly, stretched out over the white carpet, with the firelight flickering over her pale skin and dark hair, laying her bare. But she felt powerful, too, watching him take her in.
He drew her over and over, from several angles, his charcoal whispering as it moved across the page. When she started to fidget, he lulled her back to stillness with poetry he’d memorized. Lines from Mary Oliver and Sylvia Plath, Pablo Neruda and Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
They did it again the next week. And the week after that.
Every week, he helped her out of her clothes, his hands lingering longer and longer each time, his expression growing hungrier and hungrier by the end of each session. As Emeline posed, his charcoal scratched in the silence. When she grew restless or itchy or bored, Hawthorne recited more poetry. When he ran out of poems, he recounted stories from the books on his shelves. Tales of Beowulf and Antigone and the Lady of Shalott.
He was an endless font of stories, bewitching her into stillness.
She was growing addicted to the sound of his sketching, and to that moment when she slid off her dress or sweater or jeans and his jaw clenched with restraint. She was growing addicted to his voice soothing her in the firelight. To his ravenous gaze running down her spine and over her hips when she turned her back to pull on her clothes.
It was her favorite secret, these nights.
She never wanted them to end.
On the last day of winter break, they sat side by side before the fire, their hands cupped around mugs of hot cocoa after a drawing session. Emeline, who hadn’t dressed yet, was wrapped in a soft quilt from his bed.
“I’ve been thinking.” Hawthorne stared intently into the flames. “Maybe we should stop.”
Emeline turned sharply to look at him. “What do you mean?”
He tilted his face to his mug. “You have three singing gigs a week now, not to mention school, and a part-time job. You don’t need to keep doing this for me.”
She shook her head. This was the best part of her week.
And she didn’t do it for him.
“My drawing classes are starting again soon, anyway.”
Oh.
This was the real reason, then. He was bored of her. He wanted other people to draw.
That jealous, gnawing feeling was back, sinking its teeth in.
Don’t be silly, she chided. Of course he wanted different bodies to draw. The human form came in every shape and size and he wanted to learn them all. He wanted to get better. It was just like studying different kinds of music.
But the thought of Hawthorne watching someone else undress made her stomach constrict. A cold sweat dampened her skin.
Emeline didn’t know how to make herself unjealous.
Setting down the cocoa, she made her voice sound light and carefree. “Sure. Of course.” Not wanting him to see the thoughts in her eyes, she kept the blanket wrapped around her and rose to her feet, walking to the table where her clothes were folded.
“What’s wrong?” he asked from behind her.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It’s late. I should get home.”
Except there was no one waiting for her at home. Pa was in Cleveland this weekend, playing music with his button box group. She could stay as long as she liked and no one would even know.
“There’s another reason for stopping,” he said suddenly. “The real reason.”
Emeline, who was about to let the blanket fall and start pulling on her clothes, turned to find him directly behind her.
“You’re not getting anything out of this.” He looked to the darkened windows. “But I am. Far too much, I’m afraid.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
His throat worked audibly as he swallowed.
“I never should have accepted your offer. It was wrong of me.”
She frowned, holding the blanket closed at her throat. “Wrong?” Was he ashamed of drawing her? He wasn’t ashamed of drawing those other models.
Maybe she really had ruined things by volunteering herself.
A panicked feeling clawed through her. She didn’t want to go back to being only friends. She wanted this. Whatever this was that they were doing. Her voice came out shaky. “Why is it wrong?”
He ran both hands through his hair. “Isn’t it obvious, Emeline?”
It wasn’t obvious to her.
Seeing it, he stepped in closer.
“You’re not supposed to want the model you’re drawing.” He bent his head to hers. “You’re not supposed to think of her every night before you fall asleep.”
His eyes were feverish as he reached to touch her hair, letting the black strands spill through his graphite-stained fingers. His other hand slid behind her neck as he slowly ran his thumb along her jaw, trembling as he traced her.
Oh.
“Is it obvious now?” he whispered.
It was becoming obvious, yes.
Emeline swallowed. Hearing it, he froze. “Do you want me to stop touching you?”
No. Not ever. But Emeline was overcome by an unexpected shyness, and she didn’t know how to answer.
Hawthorne pulled away, trying to find the answer in her face. His absence was like a physical ache, and Emeline wanted him back.
She suddenly knew how to answer his question.
Emeline released her grip on the blanket. The fabric rushed through her fingers, falling to her feet. As the cold air raised goose bumps on her skin, she shivered and stepped towards him. Wanting his warmth.
Tangling her fingers in his hair, Emeline pulled his mouth down to hers.
It was a messy, fumbling sort of kiss. Soft and hungry.
Hawthorne quickly recovered from his surprise and pulled her tight against him, his palms sliding over her bare hips and up her back, his mouth tracing her jaw and throat.
Emeline’s heart pounded as she greedily traced him back.
The next thing she remembered was staggering to the bedroom with him. And after: her hands sliding beneath his sweater, tugging it up over his head, dropping it to the floor in a heap. And then: stumbling into the bed.
As Emeline lay beneath him, trying to unbutton his jeans, Hawthorne stopped her, bringing her hands up beside her head, trapping her palms beneath his.
“Wait,” he whispered, kissing her throat, her collarbone, her shoulder, then moving farther down, to her hips and thighs and …
Emeline went rigid. “Hawthorne?”
“Mmm?”
“What are you doing?”
His hands cupped her thighs as he looked up at her. “Do you trust me?”
Emeline bit her lip. The thought of him kissing her there, between her legs, scared her a little. Did he know what he was getting into?
“Hey.” Hawthorne stopped and came back up, covering her with his whole body, his skin hot against hers, warming her up. “We don’t have to do this, remember? Say the word and we’ll stop.”
“No, it’s just…” She wrinkled her nose and turned her face away, feeling embarrassed. “I’m afraid you’ll be grossed out.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Is that your only hesitation?”
Still looking away from him, she nodded.
He turned her face gently back to his, kissing her softly, deeply, making her thoughts go fuzzy. But then he was gone again, moving back down her body. His mouth was warm and wet as he kissed between her thighs. Emeline buried her fingers in his hair as he held on to her, bringing her closer, pushing his tongue deeper in. Emeline gasped.
The warmth went away as Hawthorne’s head came up.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded fiercely. “Yes. Are you?”
There was the hint of a smile. “Best day of my life.”
Emeline covered her face with her hands, biting down on a smile.
Soon, she relaxed. As Hawthorne’s mouth moved fervently against her, her hips arched, inviting him in. He didn’t stop until Emeline’s breathing changed and she finally unfurled like a flower, moaning softly with pleasure.
In the aftermath, her body purred with satisfaction like a cat in the sun. Hawthorne came to lie beside her, his hands moving reverently over her skin, memorizing her.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” she whispered.
He smiled against her collarbone.
“I read it,” he said, pulling her close. “In a book.”
THAT SPRING, SHE SAVED enough money to move to Montreal.
It was June, and the city was calling her. Emeline was seventeen and didn’t want to stay in Edgewood any longer. She didn’t want to sit in a classroom, watching the clock, waiting for her life to begin. She wanted to be a musician. To make her way in the world, writing and singing her songs, playing them beneath the lights.
One night, she and Hawthorne got caught in a thunderstorm. They were waiting it out on the dusty steps of the barn stairwell.
“I signed a lease,” she said, her fingertips tracing his palms in the dark. “I think you should come with me.”
He pulled his hands out from under hers, saying nothing. They’d been through this before. Only now it was really happening. And Emeline was determined to convince him.
“You could work in a library. Or a bookstore. You’ve read more books than anyone I know.”
“Emeline.”
“They’d hire you in a heartbeat. Or you could—”
“Emeline. Stop.”
His weary tone made her fall silent. The darkness was too dark, suddenly.
“I would follow you to the ends of the earth if I could.” His voice broke on the words. “But I can’t. We’ve been through this a hundred times.”
Because Hawthorne had made a deal with the Wood King—one that tied him to his king and his court. Whatever Hawthorne was getting out of this deal he never bothered to say.
Balling her hands into fists, she said, “So that’s it?”
His silence was stony, stretching on and on. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to answer her question.
“I’m bound to the woods.” His voice was thin and small. It scared her a little. “But you’re not. You need to go live your life. This is your dream and I want you to chase it, even if I can’t be by your side when you do.”
Her heart sank.
“Is this…” Emeline’s chin trembled as hot tears welled in her eyes. “Are you breaking up with me?”
He pulled her to him. Cupping her neck, he nestled her cheek against his chest, resting his chin on the crown of her head. “I never want to be the thing that holds you back.”
That wasn’t an answer to her question.
Before she could say so, he whispered into her hair, “I’ll be waiting right here. Always.”
“EMELINE?” A VOICE SHATTERED the memories, bringing her back to the present.
She was in the green room of the Nymph, with its flickering fluorescent lights and old-coffee smell. Joel stood over her, peeling her headphones away from her ears as The Perennials piled onto the couches behind him.
“You were supposed to be out onstage fifteen minutes ago.”