Page 74 of The Girl in the Forest

His mental voice was a sensual stroke. My fingers curled around his arms, responding to the bunch and flex of his biceps. I’d never touched a man as physical as he was, fit and toned with iron strength. Closing my eyes, I traced my fingertips down his arms, wanting to explore through touch alone. Wanting the heightened awareness.

Each sensation formed images in my mind—the beauty I once appreciated and understood when I’d been the girl in the forest. The girl who admired the black-and-white photographs of Edward Weston. Hard against soft. Smooth against ridged. Breathtaking art filled with sexuality that bordered on marbled hedonism.

Grayson was the living embodiment, and I would always remember him this way. A photograph of perfection locked in my mind.

He pulled away first, breaking the spell. Perhaps he’d been as aroused as I’d been with those images in my mind. But we had words to say, and I wondered where we would say them.

We were in another house. Glancing around, I could see how this space reflected Grayson’s essence, his need for privacy. This was a place where he found solace in isolation. Soothingly warm grays covered the walls—the colors of the dawn sky. Woven rugs were scattered across the dark wood floors. I dragged my fingertips over the curve of a couch upholstered in a cognac-colored leather. Books were everywhere. On shelves, stacked on the floors and tables. A fireplace waited expectantly.

Windows looked out on the forest; I wondered if the view was genuine, or if we were in another winkle where the trees were almost real. Perhaps this was a hidden space, what Azul had once been, and I asked him.

“More like Aine’s wrinkle,” Grayson said. “As a kid, I’d run away from all the mothers, come up here for a day or two. It was after Mace and Fallon helped me fix things, but I still couldn’t force myself to sleep inside, and when Fee found out, he came, offered to create a secret space where I’d be out of the weather if I let him come and go as he pleased. I thought he was crazy. But he had this—” The expression on Grayson’s face was so puzzled, I smiled. “He loves that bathroom. He loves puttering around in the kitchen. Banging the cupboards. And Aine can’t find him here.”

I laughed then. “The nymphs don’t know about this place?”

“They know there’s an old house in a field. They don’t know about the wrinkle.”

I looked around at what Fee had created. “Is this part of your club house with Mace and Fallon? Or another secret sanctum?”

“Sanctum,” Grayson said. “They come to the house, but the bathroom is just a bathroom when they’re here.”

A secret, then, making this the second secret space he’d shared with me. Layers of his life that he offered, pieces I could hold safely for him.

Like the other secret he’d shared only with Mace. How he’d been afraid. And more secrets—the prophesies that warned of those who were dearest to him, dying to protect him.

I wandered closer to the windows, where I could see his reflection in the glass. “Was Fee in charge of the design, or were you?”

“He started out offering me a tent with a lantern I could light. Flashlights to read by. I thought it was cool, so I agreed. Over the months and years, the tent turned into a house, and I started to sleep here for more than a night. I’ve changed things over the years.”

“But this is you?”

“Essentially. There’s more comfort than in the other secret places.”

“Do you cook?” I asked, eyeing the modern kitchen with marble counters, sleek cupboards, and appliances—a stove so massive it was guaranteed to light.

“Will you laugh if I say yes?”

“Probably.” My lips twitched even while I battled against an image of him, standing in front of the stove in jeans but no shirt. Barefoot, with his skin darkly bronzed in the sunlight streaming through a window. “What’s your specialty?”

“Pizza,” he said, daring me to argue. But we’d danced around the conversation we needed to have for long enough, and I hugged my waist. Bent my head until my hair fanned in a curtain.

Grayson solved the quandary by speaking first. “When did you first hear me?”

“I don’t know, Grayson. When did your wolf first tell you there was a mating bond?”

I sounded testy. My fingers raked up and down my upper arms.

He tipped his head. “You’re angry.”

Add in jittery, sexually aroused, and when I laughed, I choked on the sound. Where to start, when there were so many questions? I finally settled on a simple one.

“How did this happen? Fallon said the wolf knew first, but I have no wolf, so a mating bond ought to be impossible.”

“There are no rules, Noa,” he said. “Half the pack doesn’t believe in fated anything. And the wolf isn’t always the first to know.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“Fallon suspects. Maybe Laura. She’s always been perceptive.”

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