Page 45 of Horned to be Wild
They remained like that for a long while, basking in the afterglow and the profound sense of rightness that enveloped them. Eventually, he shifted, drawing back a little.
“Wine now?” he asked.
She laughed, stretching languidly as he lifted her free. “Definitely wine. We have plenty to celebrate.”
He retrieved the bottle and glasses, and returned to the couch, pulling her back onto his lap. They toasted their success atthe Art Fair, but also the deeper victories—the fears they’d overcome, the trust they’d built, the future they were creating together.
As the night deepened, they made love again, this time with him looming over her, the firelight gilding his horns and turning him into an ancient mythical creature. His eyes never left her face as he moved inside her, his body claiming hers with each deep, powerful stroke.
Later still, they curled together in front of the fire in sated contentment.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble in the darkness.
“How lucky I am,” she said honestly. “To have found you. To be here.”
He tightened his arms around her, burying his face in her hair and breathing deeply, as if imprinting her scent in his memory. “I’m the lucky one. You saw me when I was determined not to be seen. You believed in my art when I didn’t. You refused to let me push you away.”
She smiled against his chest. “You’re right. I am pretty amazing.”
His laugh vibrated through her, and he rolled them over, pinning her playfully beneath him. “Cheeky,” he accused, nipping gently at her earlobe.
“You love it,” she retorted, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“I do,” he admitted, his expression softening as he gazed down at her. “I love everything about you.”
They had both found what they’d been seeking—a place to belong, a person who truly saw them, a love that celebrated rather than confined. As he lowered his head to kiss her once more, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the joy of being exactly where she was meant to be. Here, with him.
EPILOGUE
Six weeks later…
Autumn light streamedthrough the newly installed skylights, painting golden rectangles across the gleaming hardwood floor of what had once been Lila’s ramshackle cottage. The musty scent of decay that had greeted her on her first day in Harmony Glen had been replaced by the crisp smell of fresh paint, polished wood, and the faint sweetness of linseed oil.
She stepped back, tilting her head to appraise the arrangement of vibrant botanical prints beside Torin’s miniature wooden sculptures. They complemented each other beautifully—the soft washes of color playing against the textured solidity of the carved wood. She made a small adjustment, shifting one frame a quarter-inch to the left, then nodded in satisfaction.
Perfect.
A month had passed since she’d officially moved into Torin’s cabin—their cabin now. The decision had been natural, inevitable, really. Her small cottage, while charming, couldn’t compare to the much larger cabin. Besides, he needed hisworkshop, and she loved the cozy evenings spent in front of his massive stone fireplace, curled next to him as he read and she sketched.
The cottage, though, had found a new purpose. When he suggested transforming it into a workshop and gallery space, she’d been delighted by the idea. They’d worked side by side for weeks, reinforcing the old building while maintaining the original charm. He’d replaced the roof and rebuilt the living room where the tree had fallen. She’d refinished the floors and painted all the walls.
She smiled at the memory as she adjusted a small sign inviting visitors to touch the small wooden sculptures—a revolutionary concept for Torin, who’d initially balked at the idea of strangers handling his work.
“Art isn’t just for the eyes,” she told him. “Some pieces need to be felt to be truly understood.”
As she suspected, he understood and agreed to the experiment. The botanical prints weren’t her work, but the work of a delightful young elf female. It had been his idea to include other local artists, expanding their vision beyond just their own work.
“There’s talent in Harmony Glen that deserves to be seen,” he told her. From the minotaur who’d once hidden his carvings away, afraid of judgment and dismissal, his statement was nothing short of revolutionary.
The tinkle of the bell above the door pulled her from her thoughts. Mabel trotted in, her hooves clicking against the hardwood, followed by Torin, who had to duck slightly to clear the doorframe. His presence still took her breath away—allseven feet of him, powerful and imposing, yet so gentle with her, with his art, with everything he truly cared about.
“You’ve been busy,” he observed, his amber eyes taking in the completed display.
“Just finishing up before tomorrow’s open house. Mrs. Gable is bringing her entire book club, and Marigold promised to spread the word among her flower delivery customers.” She wiped her hands on her paint-splattered jeans and gave him an anxious look. “What do you think?”
He moved to stand beside her, his warmth radiating through the space between them. “It’s good,” he said simply, but she could hear the pride in his voice. “They’ll come.”
Mabel, bored with their artistic contemplation, wandered over to the small bowl of treats Lila kept specifically for her visits. The little goat had, unsurprisingly, taken to the gallery conversion with enthusiasm, apparently approving of any project that gave her more spaces to explore and more people to charm.
