Page 55 of A Wolf for Winter

“Wake up, Dolly Daydream,” Rose laughed at her. “If this garland doesn’t swoop all symmetrical-like around the balcony, you know Boar’ll bite off our heads. I swear he’s got a protractor or something in his pocket.”

“And I’m not afraid to use it,” he hollered from where he hung a gigantic wreath on the exposed stone of the chimney.

“Seriously, what’s up with you?” Rose sidled in close. “You go missing nearly all day and then you come back with this dopey look on your face.”

“I don’t have a—”

“Oh my Green Mother,” she squealed. “Did you just have a yuletide fling? That’s it, isn’t it?”

Lilac leveled her with a cool look and started growing a kissing ball. She realized her choice in decoration was essentially a confession a little too late. “Rose, don’t be ridiculous.”

Rose snatched the kissing ball from her hands and shook it in Lilac’s face triumphantly. “Who is it?”

“Even if there is a who”—Lilac shot the kissing ball out of Rose’s hand with a lance of magic, sending it to hang in the dip of the garland above their heads—“it’s none of your business. Besides, I’d much rather hear about Darren Morton instead.” She’d seen the blond, burly mountain man around quite a bit, a handful of women salivating over him. He seemed only to have eyes for Rose, so that was something.

Rose ran a hand through her wild, curly hair. “There’s, um, not much I can tell you about him.”

“What? You’ve been snogging him all week!”

“Yeah. Snogging being the operative word.”

“Oh my Green Mother, Rose.” She flicked her sister in the shoulder. “Do you even know a thing about him?”

“He’s got these amazing tattoos all over his arms. And he’s got this birthmark in the joint of his left leg—”

“I meant things about his personality, not his groin!” A spear of jealousy stabbed her in the stomach, though, as she thought how much she would’ve enjoyed getting closer to Allen had the circumstances permitted. She could only assume what he looked like from running her hands over his clothed body. And if her imagination and reality had anything in common, then he would look divine naked.

“He’s dedicated,” Rose replied seriously. “Dedicated at kissing me so hard I can’t feel my face afterwards.”

“Go away,” Lilac told her snickering sister.

Rose pranced off to grow some mistletoe, her booted feet stomping in time to the string quartet, and Lilac looked for Allen longingly. She couldn’t find him, and a panic rose within her.

“Darren Morton sounds like a selfish lover,” Allen whispered into her ear, right behind her. She jumped, not turning around, her breath hitching as his hand curved possessively over her right buttock. “When I kiss you, I know you feel it thundering into your toes.”

“Allen,” she breathed.

He gave her a firm, lustful squeeze and moved away from her before they could be noticed being familiar with one another. Boar called out not a second later, asking him to hurry up and bring that ladder over. It was time to hang the ornaments. Lilac dragged her gaze from where it had anchored on the space where Allen’s legs met his back and opened her first box of ornaments.

Compared to the Craft Faire, the Hanging of the Green was a more sedate affair. It was all in preparation for the crowning event of the Yuletide Gala: the Yuletide Masquerade. The Hawthornes served the village a feast and there was music and ball gowns and the Lighting of the Stars. The myriad glass ornaments they now hung amongst the greenery were filled with one of Peony Hawthorne’s potions (desiccated to resemble golden confetti) and would burst with light when activated by their magic tomorrow.

It was a truly wondrous affair, and Lilac was incandescently happy that she got to share it with the man she—

Oh my Green Mother. I . . . love him.

The ornament slipped from her hands as the realization sank into her bones. The glass fractured and skittered across the hardwood floor like a hundred crystal cockroaches. In the palm of her right hand, an echo of the green spark remained. She supposed she’d known it for a while now, but she’d never said, or even thought, the word until now. It has always been want and need and this burning ache in her heart that wasn’t lust.

For a moment, her confidence wavered. Did he feel the same way? He hadn’t said that word to her either, though she had assumed the other phrases he’d used had been the equivalent. You’re mine, Lilac. My sweet girl.

Yet, how many times had she used similar terminology on a mark?

“Lilac?” Boar called down from where he stood on the top of the ladder, hanging ornaments from the chandelier. “You alright?”

Allen, who held the ladder steady for her brother, gave her a concerned look. Concern wasn’t unwavering devotion. Wasn’t two paths becoming one. She needed to talk to Allen, right now, before her heart could break like the ornament she’d dropped.

“Just clumsy,” she replied lightly. “I’ll just get a broom.”

Whereas Boar just grunted his acknowledgement, Allen gave her a harder, knowing look. He’d heard the waver in her voice. His golden brow furrowed low over intense golden-brown eyes. You’re not okay, are you?