Page 70 of The Pumpkin Bride

That was an excellent piece of evidence that he was not Bram. As was his mysterious inability to decamp from Grimroot Farm. Her Bram wouldn’t have been able to keep these secrets from her or his hands to himself.

She rubbed her temples. What madness to consider for a moment that the mountainous creature downstairs was the boy she’d loved?

She blew out her lips.

And yet . . .

No, she refused the notion. She’d buried Bram. A marble marked his empty grave, and a cleric offered comforting words. They’d wept and eaten a feast in his honor. Beyond the rituals, in her heart, she’d said goodbye. False hope would break her to pieces all over again.

She flopped onto the bed.

So what if Jask apologized the same way Bram had and possessed golden-flecked eyes? She was no mathematician, but the sheer volume of words and eyes in this world must’ve meant there were two creatures with similar vocabulary and irises. Surely that was possible.

Fuzzle leapt onto the bed, then cuddled against Marigold’s side.

“I’m okay, Fuzz,” she said. “Just cursed with hope.”

With a quick pinch of her fingers, she extinguished the candle. The callouses she’d developed since she’d arrived were helpful in this way. If only she could thicken the ones around her heart.

Jask was not Bram.

And as vexed as she was with him, she could not deny what she felt when he kissed her. Now that the seal had been broken, the want was undeniable. Had he made a pig’s ear of their encounter?

Without a doubt.

Would she forgive him? Yes, also without a doubt.

The fiery feeling of his palms on her backside drifted between her legs. Tomorrow she’d make the Maiden’s Mercy silphium infusion that kept her courses at bay and prevented pregnancy. If there was any chance of intimacy, it was best taken early to work its way into her humors. Another thing her magic mentor, Vera, had taught her.

Babies are blessings, she’d said. But it’s ideal not to be surprised.

Marigold woke with sweat snaking from her temple to her neck. Fuzzle touched a concerned paw to her cheek.

“I’m okay.”

She hugged the cat to her. In her yarrow-infused dream, she’d sat in Jask’s chair in front of a crackling hearth, sipping hot cider with a curl of cinnamon and flipping pages of her favorite book of fairy tales. She was all cozy contentment when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. A low, rumbly voice invited her to bed. When she swiveled her gaze to smile at her beloved, it was Bram.

And also Jask, as though they were layered one atop the other.

She pressed her palms to her eyes. The stupid yarrow must’ve brought on false visions. Assuming Jask slumbered and hadn’t stayed up all night, had the yarrow affected him?

Jask, who rejected her advances.

Jask, whom she’d encounter as soon as she walked down the stairs. There was no avoiding him in a cottage this size. After washing up, she whispered the speech she’d spent half the night crafting in her looking glass.

“While I stand by everything I said last night, I know you were trying to be honorable when you thought me impassioned beyond rational thought. Hear me, Jask. My honor’s my own to keep, and there’s nothing more rational than what I feel for you.”

There. If it didn’t knock him over, he must’ve been stone hearted.

She glanced at herself in the looking glass. Excellent. Despite a lack of sleep, her eyes were clear and twinkling, their color brought out by her pale blue dress. She’d chosen this one because Jask seemed to favor it, perhaps because it hugged her breasts like an eager lover.

Anything to tempt him.

Since last night’s kiss, she could not shake the sensation of him between her thighs. Nor did she want to. This was an ache that could be satisfied in one way, and she was determined.

Was it scandalous for a woman to have desires?

For some, probably. But who wanted to live in a world where women simply tolerated lovemaking when there was so much joy and pleasure to be found in it? She’d not felt this bloom in her body for a long time. Its reawakening assured her that her heart was resilient.