Page 8 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

We both freeze.

A sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan. His nostrils flare. The shadows *ripple*, vines curling like cats around our ankles.

“Let go,” I say weakly.

He does. Too fast. I stumble, catching myself on the shelf. His chest heaves like he’s run miles, sigils blazing.

“You felt that?” I ask.

He stares at my mouth.

“Right.” I adjust my dress, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my gut. “Boundaries.”

He flees.

---

He brings me gifts.

A comb carved from bone. A dagger with a hilt wrapped in his hair. Blackberries so sweet they stain my lips purple.

“I don’t need bribes,” I tell him, eating a berry anyway.

He watches my tongue catch the juice. His claws puncture the log he’s sitting on.

“Stop that.”

He blinks innocently.

“You know what you’re doing.”

A shrug. But there’s a smugness to him now, a predator circling prey he has no intention of eating.

---

The storm breaks on the seventh night.

Rain sheets through the clearing, hissing in the fire. I huddle under his cloak, reading by witchlight. He’s across from me, whittling another flute. Or maybe a weapon. Hard to tell.

Lightning flashes. I flinch.

He’s at my side before the thunder hits.

“I’m okay,” I lie.

He hesitates, then lifts his arm—an invitation.

“No cuddling.”

He rolls his eyes.

But when the next bolt strikes, closer this time, I inch toward him. His arm settles over my shoulders, tentative. Cold seeps through my dress.

“You’re freezing.”

He starts to pull away.

“Wait.” I press closer, shivering. “Just… share the cloak.”