Page 33 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

She wasn’t some delicate flower who needed protecting. If Thorn wanted to sulk in the woods, that was his business. But she hadn’t come all this way to sit inside and wait for permission to do her job.

The restless energy under her skin grew stronger with each passing minute. She could practically hear her mother’s voice: “The best light won’t wait for you, sweetheart.”

Nodding decisively, she dressed quickly, then adjusted her camera strap over her shoulder, the familiar weight of her camera settling against her hip. She decided not to take her bag—she didn’t plan to go far—but she couldn’t remain inside any longer. As she stepped out onto the cabin’s porch, the morning dew sparkled on spider webs strung between branches, turning them into delicate crystal nets. Perfect. She raised her camera, capturing the ethereal scene before the sun could burn the moisture away.

Bront’s warm body pressed against her legs, his three sets of eyes scanning the tree line. At least someone was happy to keep her company. “Come on, boy. Let’s go exploring.”

A game trail beckoned, barely visible beneath a carpet of fallen leaves. She followed it away from the cabin, pausing every few steps to frame another shot. A cluster of tiny orange mushrooms glowed like embers against dark bark. Click. Sunbeams pierced the canopy, creating spotlights on the forest floor. Click. Adelicate white flower she’d never seen before nodded in the breeze. Click.

The cool morning air filled her lungs, carrying the scent of moss and something sweeter—maybe those strange purple blossoms dotting the understory. It was easier out here, away from the lingering warmth of Thorn’s bed and the memory of his hands on her skin. The forest didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer or make her heart ache with possibilities.

Bront’s tail wagged as she knelt to photograph a fallen log wrapped in luminous shelf fungi. The massive hound seemed perfectly content to be her photography assistant, though his constant shifting between her and the trail suggested he was taking his guard duty seriously.

“At least you’re not brooding somewhere,” she murmured, scratching his ears. The gesture earned her an enthusiastic face-licking from all three heads. Laughing, she wiped her cheeks and stood, following the path deeper into the green sanctuary of the Elderwood.

She didn’t walk through curtains of flowering vines as she had the day before, but she had the oddest sensation that the forest was welcoming her. A branch would swish out of her way as she approached. A perfect blossom would float down from high in the canopy and land in her hand. And there were always more potential photographs waiting just around the bend.

A twig snapped somewhere ahead, sharp and distinct against the gentle forest sounds, and her heart skipped a beat. She lowered her camera as Bront’s ears shot up, his three heads swiveling toward the noise. Her first thought was Thorn, but the hound’s reaction seemed more concerned than welcoming.

She crept forward, following Bront’s lead. The massive dog moved with surprising stealth, his paws barely rustling the leaves. Another sound—a soft whimper this time—drew her attention to a thick patch of ferns.

She carefully parted the fronds, then uttered a muttered curse.

Tangled in cruel wire snare was a creature she’d never seen before—something between a fox-like creature with tufted golden fur that seemed to shimmer despite its matted state and three fluffy tails. Its chest heaved with panicked breaths, emerald eyes wide with terror.

“Oh no,” she breathed. The thin wire of the snare bit painfully into the innocent little creature’s leg.

“Hey there, sweet thing,” she whispered, keeping her voice soft and steady despite the fury churning in her stomach. “It’s okay. I’m going to help you.”

The creature’s eyes fixed on her, intelligence clear in its gaze. It trembled but didn’t struggle as she reached for the wire, carefully trying to loosen the cruel metal. Bront pressed close, offering silent support as she muttered gentle reassurances.

What kind of cruel bastard would do something like this?

Despite her best efforts, she didn’t have the knowledge to free the animal from the trap. Her fingers trembled against the cold metal, skin scraping raw as she fought with the stubborn snare. The fox-like animal’s emerald eyes locked onto hers, filled with a trust that made her heart ache.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, withdrawing her hands when another tug made the creature whimper. Blood matted its golden fur where the wire cut into its skin, and tears offrustration burned behind her eyes. She was failing this innocent creature.

Bront was watching her, all three heads tilted in concern, and she gave him a desperate glance.

“Can you find Thorn?” she asked, voice thick with emotion. “Can you bring him here to help like you brought him to me?”

The hound’s ears perked up at Thorn’s name. He pressed his warm bulk against her side, letting out a soft whine.

“Please,” she whispered, scratching behind his ears. “I know you’re supposed to guard me, but I can’t do this alone. I need his help.”

Bront nuzzled her cheek, his breath warm against her skin, then bounded away into the trees. His paws barely made a sound as he disappeared into the undergrowth.

She turned back to the trapped creature, keeping her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Help is coming. Just hold on a little longer.” She settled cross-legged beside it, close enough to offer comfort but not so near as to frighten it further. “I won’t leave you, I promise.”

Twigs snapped behind her and her heart leaped into her throat. She spun around, nearly losing her balance, to find Thorn emerging from the shadows beneath the trees like a storm cloud, Bront at his heels. His eyes blazed green fire, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone.

For a heartbeat, fear flickered through her—had she angered him by leaving the cabin? But after a brief glance at her his gaze traveled to the trapped creature, the fury in his expression transforming into something else entirely. Without a word, heknelt beside her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

His massive hands, capable of such destruction, moved with impossible gentleness. Big fingers worked the wire with practiced ease, carefully avoiding the matted blood in the creature’s fur. The contrast made her breath catch—this fierce protector of the woods, handling an injured animal with more tenderness than she’d thought possible.

The fox-like creature remained perfectly still under his touch, as if it sensed his intention to help. She watched, mesmerized by the fluid grace of his movements. For all his gruffness, here was the truth of him—revealed in the soft way he cradled the animal’s wounded leg, in the quiet murmur that escaped him as he worked.

This was the real Thorn—not the angry guardian, not the distant protector, but someone who cared so deeply it hurt. Someone who couldn’t bear to see anything suffer, no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise.My Thorn.

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