Page 37 of A Fae’s Guide to Tactical Botany

She’d felt his eyes on her the whole time—perhaps given an extra flick to her wings because of it.

In the shelter of her bower, she’d stroked her own hands up the expanding vanes of her wings, eyes closed, imagining hands on them, strong and confident. Ethan’s hands. It was a bitter thing to acknowledge, even now, but she was tired of lying to herself.

She wanted Ethan desperately, craved the hunger in his eyes and the morsels of closeness she rationed out to herself throughout each day. Which was why she needed to help him. She needed to give him what he wanted so that she could rid herself of him before she gave in and begged for what she wanted. Because she didn’t want it. Not with her heart or her head. Only her traitorous body thrummed at his nearness with desire.

Ofelia would tell her to give in.

Ofelia was probably right.

Ofelia was, thankfully, not around to point out the fact that she was right.

A rustle of fabric brought her attention back to the present. Ethan had paused his sketching to rummage in his backpack. When he caught her watching, he winked at her.

“You know, you don’t need to stay,” he said. He took a deep swig from his canteen. “You told me where I was allowed to go, and I promised I wouldn’t go farther.”

“I cannot trust you,” she lied, giving a sniff.

“Mmm.” He drank more, but his eyes were still on her. “I’m almost done here. I’ll get some samples and move on.” He regarded the flower he’d been sketching with a judicious eye. “It might help if you’d answer a few questions. Not personal ones,” he hastened to add.

“I suppose.”

He reached out and touched the blossom, stroking its petals from base to edge.

Mara was not prepared. She gasped, and he turned sharply to look at her.

“Wait,” he said. “You can feel this?” He touched the flower again, tentatively.

Mara straightened her spine. “It is mine,” she said evenly. “We are connected.”

He withdrew his hand suddenly. “Wait. So when I take samples, does it… Does it hurt you?”

“If I say it does, will you leave now?”

“Would it be true?”

“No,” she admitted grudgingly. “A flower falling is natural. It does not bring pain, to the plant or to myself. Even when you take a piece of the flesh, I do not feel it.” She shrugged. “Plants are not so delicate, for the most part. They are accustomed to a certain amount of damage, and they grow despite it.”

“Oh, thank god.” He leaned back on his hands. His T-shirt was damp with sweat under his overshirt, clinging to his body. “I had this awful vision, that you were all merged and hive-mindy.”

“We are not as the bees,” Mara said. “The plants are themselves, and have not the mind to care about such things.”

“But you can feel them. What does it feel like?”

“It is— I cannot explain.” She abruptly—unwisely—reached out and took his nearest hand. “It is like this.” She traced a delicate pattern into his palm. It was foolish. She knew it. But she had an excuse to feel his skin against hers, and she was not strong enough to resist it.

He shifted on the sand. Was he aroused? Or just uncomfortable with being touched?

Whatever it was, he did not draw away.

“Do you…feel it on your hand?”

“Ah, no. It is more…” She daringly ran her finger up his wrist, then reached over and touched his cheek, his throat, fleeting touches too fast to be called a caress. “It is different places. We are not the same, the flower and I. It does not translate exactly.” She frowned. “I have not thought about it much.”

He gusted out a breath. “Well, now I feel like a creeper.”

“It is all right,” Mara said, withdrawing her hands to her lap. “It is simply what happens. I do not mind.”

Ethan turned to her, and something passed between them. A stillness like the desert as a storm approached. “You know this is a terrible temptation,” he said in a low voice.