Page 11 of She Touched His Vine

That’s what haunts me most.

Humans are noisy things—always chasing, taking, proving. Warping the world into exactly what they want without any care for any other creature’s desires. But Clara… she carries her wanting like a secret she’s not sure she deserves to speak aloud.

And the Grove wants her.

That’s what I don’t understand.

Why would it reach for someone who doesn’t even know she’s being chosen?

CHAPTER 5

CLARA

Ishouldn’t be doing this.

I mean, IknowI shouldn’t. Ryder would scowl. Julie might actually use her “I’m not mad, just disappointed” voice. And Mags would probably smuggle me lemon bars as a consolation prize for getting grounded by an ancient forest spirit.

But I’m here anyway.

At the Grove’s edge, holding a mason jar of warm compost tea in one hand and a cloth pouch of seed mixes in the other like offerings to a god I’m not sure believes in offerings.

I haven’t slept much since it happened.

Not because I’m scared—though, yeah, I probablyshouldbe—but because I keep replaying it. The vines flaring. The pulsing magic. The man who wasn’tjusta man stepping from the shadows like he was carved from the woods themselves.

And the way he looked at me.

Like he was… studying me.

Like he already knew who I was.

I take a breath and crouch beside the same half-buried stone, fingers curling tight around the jar. My knees ache but I don’t shift. Movement might break the spell, if there is one.

“Hi again,” I whisper, eyes low.

No answer. Just the soft sigh of a breeze and the occasional flicker of sun through the canopy.

I swallow. “I brought tea. For the roots. I mean—not for you. Unless you like compost. That’d be weird. But, um, yeah…”

I unscrew the jar and pour a slow trickle of the murky brown liquid into the soil near the base of the vine. It steams faintly as it soaks in.

“And seeds,” I add, holding up the pouch. “Just native pollinators and some thyme. For the bees.”

Still nothing.

I shift uncomfortably and glance around. No glowing eyes in the underbrush. No shadowy limbs peeling out of trees.

He’s not here.

My chest tugs in a way I don’t like.

I set the pouch gently on the moss, like a peace flag made of burlap and chamomile.

“I don’t want to mess anything up,” I say, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to let me go. I know that. So… thanks.”

The silence stretches, long and lazy.

I sit cross-legged and sigh, twirling the pouch’s drawstring between my fingers.

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