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She’s snoring softly into my neck, and I’m breathing her in, the way I do every night. Honey. Beeswax. Her.
And something else.
I go still.
It’s faint. So faint I almost think I imagined it. A new note, sweet and warm and soft, tucked down under her honey. Something that wasn’t there three weeks ago. Something I’ve never smelled on her before.
I’ve smelled it on other creatures, though. Deer in the spring. Birds in their nests. Every living thing in the forest that was ever carrying something new.
My heart starts pounding.
I don’t wake her up. I don’t say a word. I just pull her closer, and press my lips to her hair, and lie there in the dark, with my hand spread wide and careful on her belly.
Waiting for her to find out on her own.
Eleven
Chapter Eleven: Hattie
Something’s up with Rowan.
For two weeks now, he’s been acting funny. He keeps smelling me. Not the regular way, because Rowan always smells me, that’s just Rowan. This is different. He’ll be chopping wood or stirring the porridge, and he’ll stop, lean over, put his nose in my hair, and breathe. Slow. Like he’s checking on something.
Every night, his hand ends up on my belly. Spread out wide and careful. This from a man who breaks eggs just by looking at them.
And yesterday he snatched the water bucket right out of my hands.
“Rowan, it’s half full.”
“It’s heavy.”
“I’ve been carrying that bucket since I was twelve.”
“And now you don’t have to.”
And he walked off with it. Like that’s a normal thing for a grown man to say about a bucket.
But honestly? Something’s up with me too.
I’m tired all the damn time. I fell asleep pouring candles on Tuesday and woke up with wax all over my hand. My boobs hurt. Everything smells too strong. And I want pickles. With honey on them. Don’t ask me why.
And I’m horny.
Not regular horny. I’ve been regular horny since a seven-foot tree walked into my life. This is something else. I’m horny when I wake up. I’m horny at the hives. I’m horny watching him split wood, watching him carve, watching him do absolutely nothing but stand in my kitchen breathing.
Like right now.
He’s at the counter kneading bread. His sleeves are pushed up, and his forearms are dusted with flour, and every time he leans into the dough, the muscles in his back move under his shirt. He’s humming. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
I’ve been sitting at this table for five minutes with a pickle in my hand, just watching him. My pussy’s already wet.
Lord, help me.
I put the pickle down, walk over, and slide my arms around him from behind. He goes still. Then he takes a slow breath in through his nose, and I feel his whole body change.
“Hattie,” he says. Low.
“Mm-hm.”
