Page 43 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

“The forest is safe now if you want to go back.”

Every word felt as if it was torn from his chest but he did his best to keep his voice calm. She frowned up at him, the puzzlement on her face making his chest ache even more.

“Back where?”

“Back to the human world. Out of the Elderwood.”

An expression he couldn’t read crossed her face.

“Why would I want to do that?” she asked softly.

“Because this time it was Bront. Next time it could be you. The Elderwood holds many dangers. And it’s an isolated life. I don’t leave the woods very often—I don’t want to leave. I am the Guardian. My place is here.”

“Are you saying you want me to leave?” Her voice was still soft, big blue eyes focused on his face.

“No!” The denial erupted before he could prevent it, but he took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. “I just want you to understand your choices. To truly understand what being with me would mean. It was selfish of me to ask you to stay without giving you a chance to think about it.”

“What if I’ve already made a decision?”

He shook his head, not entirely sure if he was being brave or cowardly. “I would still say you need to think about it. The forest isn’t going anywhere, and neither am I.”

She looked at him and nodded thoughtfully, and his chest ached. Even though he had just told her to take her time to make her decision, part of him had hoped that she would respond with her usual enthusiasm.

“Very well,” she said. “You’re going to take these men into town?”

“Yes, I’m going to turn them into the sheriff.” He would rather have abandoned them to the swamp but for the sake of human-Other relations, he would let the law handle them—with one exception. Each of the men was wearing a charm around his neck—a charm that had allowed them through his wards. They would be telling him exactly where they’d obtained that charm before he handed them over.

She nodded, then bent over her camera, flicked rapidly through the pictures, before retrieving the memory card and handed it to him.

“This might help. I took pictures of everything here, but I deleted the pictures of the fight.”

“Thank you.” His voice sounded hoarse, strained.

“If I did want to leave, how would I find my way out?” she asked, her words carving a hole in his chest.

“Bront will show you back to the cabin to gather your things and then guide you back to the human world.”

The dog whined anxiously, all three heads giving him a beseeching look which he ignored.

She nodded again and he rubbed impatiently at his chest. This was for the best. He couldn’t stand the idea that she might have made a decision she would come to regret. He was equally afraid that if he didn’t give her the choice now, he’d never be able to let her go. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t end up hunting her down anyway.

His chest burned as she pressed her palm against his heart. Her touch was too gentle, too understanding. He’d expected anger, arguments—anything but this quiet acceptance that threatened to shatter his resolve.

“Be careful, Thorn.”

Her whispered words carried no demand, no manipulation, just genuine concern for his safety, and his throat closed up. The urge to gather her close, to bury his face in her hair and beg her not to leave him nearly overwhelmed him. But he held himself rigid, muscles locked against the temptation, as she walked away, her small body disappearing between the ancient trees. Bront padded beside her, three heads alert and watchful. The dog would keep her safe. That knowledge should have brought comfort.

It didn’t.

The forest whispered around him, branches creaking reproachfully in the morning breeze. He’d walked these paths alone for decades, finding a measure of peace in solitude. Now there was no peace to be found.

The poachers lay bound at his feet, their groans a distant irritation compared to the hollow ache spreading through hischest. He should focus on them, on protecting his woods. Instead, his keen ears strained for one last hint of Sylvie’s voice, carried on the wind.

Nothing.

She was already too far away.

A twig snapped beneath one of the poacher’s boots as the man stirred, and he welcomed the distraction, the familiar rage rising to fill the void she’d left behind. This was his purpose—protecting the Elderwood. Nothing else mattered.

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