"Satyrs can twist their ankles?"
"We can pretend." He met her eyes over the rim of his glass. "I don't want you to feel trapped."
Trapped.
The word settled between them. She turned it over in her mind, examining it from all angles.
She had felt trapped, hadn't she? At the committee meeting, when Ellie nominated her before she could object. At the vineyard, the first time she'd been alone with him. At his cabin yesterday, when he'd kissed her and her body had responded before her brain could intervene.
But this—sitting here in the soft golden light, with the wine warming her throat and him watching her like she was something precious—this didn't feel like a trap.
This felt like a choice.
"The festival is important to the town," she said slowly. "And I said I'd help. So I'm going to help."
"Even if it means dancing with me?"
"Even if." She took a breath. Let it out. "Though I should warn you—I really am terrible. The bride's brother's story wasn't an exaggeration."
"I don't care how terrible you are."
"You say that now."
"I say that always, little flower." His voice had gone softer. More serious. "I've watched you walk into that grove like you were expecting it to hurt you. I've watched you flinch every time I get too close. And I've watched you come back anyway, even though you're scared."
Her throat tightened. "I'm not?—"
"You are. And that's okay. But I need you to understand something." He set down his glass and turned to face her fully."Whatever happens here—whatever you decide you want—I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to push. I'm not going to make you feel foolish or used or small. That's not who I am."
The words hit her like a wave, stealing her breath.
Because she'd been waiting for this. Waiting for him to show his true colors, to prove that all the patience and gentleness was just a mask for something darker. Waiting for him to demand something she couldn't give.
And instead he was sitting here, in the grove he'd filled with lights for her, offering her an out.
*Trust is a choice, not a surrender.*
Winnie's voice echoed in her memory.
"Okay," she heard herself say.
He blinked. "Okay?"
She set down her own glass and rose to her feet. The sundress swirled around her ankles as she moved to the center of the clearing, where the lantern light was brightest and the moss was softest.
She turned to face him and extended her hand.
"Teach me to dance."
His face transformed. Not the smooth charm she'd come to expect, but something rawer. Something that made her heart stutter in her chest.
He crossed the distance between them and took her hand in his.
His palm was warm and slightly rough, the hand of someone who worked with earth and vines and growing things. His fingers closed around hers with careful pressure—firm enough to hold, gentle enough to release.
"I'll try not to break your hooves," she said.
His smile was like the sunrise.
