Page 32 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

He filled the iron kettle with fresh spring water and set it on the back of the stove, then filled an open pan to make porridge. The familiar motions should have calmed him, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the little female asleep in his bed. He selected mint and other herbs from his mother’s old herb box, measuring it into the teapot with practiced care. The scent mingled withwoodsmoke, but couldn’t mask the lingering sweetness of her scent in the air.

The porridge needed stirring. He added a pinch of salt and some dried berries he’d gathered last autumn. Why was he fussing over her breakfast? She wasn’t staying. Couldn’t stay. But his hands betrayed him, reaching for a honey pot she’d lingered over the previous day when she was inspecting his cabin.

A log shifted in the stove, sparks dancing. His ears twitched at the soft rustle of blankets from across the room, and his grip tightened on the wooden spoon. Even without looking, he felt her presence—warm and alive in his space.

The kettle began to sing and he quickly lifted it off the burner before the whistle could wake her, pouring steaming water into the teapot, then placing it on the table, wrapped in a towel. He chose a pottery cup with a hand painted flower, small enough for her small hands, and set a place for her at the table.

His chest ached. Such simple things shouldn’t feel this significant. Shouldn’t feel like pieces of himself he was giving away with each domestic gesture. He stirred the porridge again, then spooned it into a heavy pottery bowl. He placed it on the table as well, covering it with a thick cloth and tucking in the edges to trap the warmth. He added a small pitcher of cream and the jar of honey. A simple enough breakfast, but it satisfied something deep inside him to provide for her.

He glanced over at the bed again, unable to stop his gaze from lingering on her sleeping body. Sunlight painted her skin golden, caught the copper threads in her hair. Her chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm.

The cabin felt too small, the air too thick with her scent. Even the familiar comfort of his home had shifted, reshaped itself around her presence. He couldn’t think straight with her so close.

Bront’s three heads lifted from his spot by the hearth, glowing blue eyes tracking his restless pacing. The hound’s tail thumped against the floor boards.

“Guard her,” he growled, voice rough.

Bront huffed but padded over and jumped up on the bed, watching him as he settled down next to her. He had to fight back a jealous growl at the sight of his dog where he longed to be. Instead he slipped quietly out of the door. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t bear to see her curled in his bed, looking like she belonged there.

The forest beckoned—familiar, uncomplicated. He needed its silence, its ancient wisdom. Needed space to sort through the mess of emotions tangling in his chest. But as his hooves padded quietly along the mossy trail, he had to fight a constant battle with himself against returning to her. The familiar whispers of ancient trees did nothing to quiet the storm in his mind. Every breath brought memories of Sylvie’s scent, sweet and warm against his skin.

Even the forest seemed to conspire against him. Twice he found himself turned around and headed back to the cabin before he realized it.

Fuck. Even here, surrounded by the wilderness that had been his sanctuary for decades, he couldn’t escape memories of her. Her eager response when he claimed her against that tree. The way she’d shattered beneath his mouth last night. How she’d tracedhis scars without flinching. The trust in her eyes before she’d fallen asleep against his chest.

A branch snapped beneath his hoof and he growled, frustrated by his own distraction. He was the Guardian of Elderwood. He had no business letting a human female cloud his judgment.

But she wasn’t just any human. She saw past his gruff exterior, challenged him, made him want things he’d sworn never to pursue again. The thought sent a spike of panic through his chest.

His sister’s face flashed in his mind—her bright smile dimming after that human had betrayed her to his friends. The memory should have hardened his resolve. Instead, it twisted something deeper inside him. Sylvie wasn’t like that. She was… different.

And that terrified him more than anything.

He sighed, letting his head fall back against a tree trunk. The rough bark grounded him, but couldn’t stop the ache spreading through his chest. He’d spent years building walls around himself, protecting what was left of his heart. Now Sylvie had slipped through every defense like morning mist, leaving him raw and exposed.

He didn’t know how to claim her and keep his duty to the forest. Didn’t know how to trust a human and still honor his sister’s memory. Didn’t know how to let himself love without risking everything he’d sworn to protect.

CHAPTER 17

Sylvie’s eyes fluttered open to pale sunlight dancing through the woven branches above. The bed still held Thorn’s wild, earthy scent but the space next to her was empty, cold.

“Of course,” she muttered, pushing herself up. Her body ached in pleasant ways that brought heat to her cheeks as memories of last night flooded back. He’d spent what felt like hours feasting on her—just as he’d promised—but she was still too sore for anything more. He’d used some of his healing oil to ease the lingering ache, although the tingling sensation it caused had left her squirming eagerly and he’d had to pin her down with one hand while he applied the oil with the other. She’d been desperate for him, but he’d insisted on waiting. Instead, he’d touched and teased until she’d shattered again, and then wrapped her securely in his arms to sleep.

But now he’s gone again.She sighed and sat up. Bront’s three heads immediately perked up from his spot by the door, tail thumping against the wooden floor. At least someone was happy to see her.

“Come here, handsome.” She patted the bed, and the massive hound bounded over, nearly knocking her flat as he tried to lick her face with all three tongues at once. “At least you’re not afraid of showing affection.”

She wrapped one of the soft blankets around herself and padded to the window. The forest stretched endless and green beyond the glass, mist curling between the ancient trunks. Somewhere out there, Thorn was probably brooding and telling himself last night had been a mistake.

“Stupid, stubborn satyr,” she sighed, but there wasn’t any real heat in it. She understood needing space, especially given his past—she just wished he’d stuck around long enough to talk about what was happening between them.

The scent of porridge and herbs drifted from the kitchen nook and she wandered over to find he’d made her breakfast before disappearing. The teapot’s warmth seeped through the towel as she poured herself a cup, breathing in the fragrant steam. Mint mixed with herbs she couldn’t name, probably gathered from the forest itself. A smile tugged at her lips as she added a drizzle of honey. Even when he was avoiding her, he couldn’t help taking care of her.

The porridge was perfect—creamy and rich, dotted with wild berries for a burst of sweetness. She wouldn’t have guessed that he would care about presentation, but he’d arranged everything just so, down to the little ceramic pitcher of cream.

Bront sprawled at her feet, all three heads watching hopefully as she ate. She found some bread for him, laughing when he devoured it as if he’d been starving for a week. She shook her bed when he gave her another soulful look, and scratched behind his ears.

Her fingers drummed against the wooden table as she finished the last bite of porridge. She washed the dishes then cast a restless glance at the window. Her camera bag sat by the door, practically begging to be picked up. The forest beyond the windows glowed with morning light, promising a thousand perfect shots.

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