My body answers the memory at once. Heat spreads low and deep, coiling through my stomach, my thighs, rising until my breath stutters against my sleeve. I press my legs together, trying to quiet it, but the ache only deepens. I feel again the press of his lips, the graze of his teeth, the murmured words against my skin like prayers spoken directly into my blood. Every breath carries the echo of his voice. Every pulse remembers his mouth.
I want him.
The realization beats through me, raw and undeniable. It claws upward from somewhere primal, something older than the rules that shaped my days. My fingers curl into the wool beneath me, gripping tight as though I might hold onto the sensation itself.
I cannot marry. I cannot fold myself back into the shape they have carved for me.
The thought spirals through me, frantic now. I see Radu’s face in my mind, the room that will be mine, the narrow bed, the walls that will close in night after night. No forest. No sky. No running barefoot throughdamp grass with moonlight on my shoulders. No hidden flowers pressed between linen folds. No secret door opening into darkness.
My breath breaks. I turn onto my back, staring into the dark, lips moving soundlessly. I pray without words now, each silent plea thrown into whatever power might still be listening.
Please. Take me.
Let me open my eyes to darkness and branches and the sound of his breath instead of this suffocating air. Let this—this rope, this barn, this promise of vows and walls and watchful eyes—be the dream instead.
The barn creaks softly as someone shifts nearby. I do not move. I lie rigid, eyes squeezed shut, willing the world to tilt the way it has before, to slip its boundaries and carry me back into his arms. My whole body feels drawn toward something just out of reach, straining like a tether pulled too tight.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the wind moves through the trees. I imagine it is his breath against my skin.
I cling to that thought until exhaustion finally drags me under, my last conscious plea still echoing through me.
Let me wake with him.
Let me wake where he is.
Let me belong there.
Chapter Three
Trezeste-te, draga mea[29].
The words reach me first, soft as breath against my skin. I stir slowly, still caught somewhere between sleep and something deeper, my body heavy with the echo of the night. For a moment I do not open my eyes. I wait for the cool of moss beneath my back, for the scent of pine and damp earth, for the press of him beside me.
A hand brushes my cheek, and my eyes open slowly.
The barn ceiling comes into view.
The beams. The pale morning light seeping through the cracks. The smell of hay.
A sound escapes my throat before I can stop it, small and wounded. My chest tightens. I am here. Not beneath the trees. Not in his arms. Not in the place where the night unfolded like something sacred and terrible and real. The emptiness hits so violently I almost fold in on myself. I turn my head, breath catching, as though I might still find him there, waiting at the edge of sight.
But there is only my mother.
She sits beside me, closer than she has been in days, thumb brushing my skin in slow, absent strokes. Her face is softer than I remember it, the tension that had held it tight these past nights eased into something almost gentle. Her eyes shine with a light I have not seen since before everything changed.
"There you are," she murmurs. "You slept deeply. That is good."
I blink, the last traces of sleep slipping away too quickly. My chest tightens as the truth settles fully. I am still here. The forest did not take me. He did not come.
She smiles, hopeful, as though something has been restored simply by the promise of what is to come.
"We have much to do today," she says, her fingers smoothing a stray strand of hair from my face, "Everything must be ready. It will be a good day."
Her gaze lingers on me as though she sees not what I am now, but what she believes I will become by evening. There is kindness in her touch again. Pride. Relief.
My heart clenches. For a moment I want to lean into her hand, to let that warmth hold me the way it once did. To forget the night. To forget the forest. To forget the way my body answered something it was never meant to answer.
This is for the best. The thought comes quietly, almost gently.
