Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

I anticipated obstacles popping up to make it difficult for us to hold onto each other all the way to the next crossroads. Nothing happened. No monsters, no vines tripping us, not even a jump scare. After a while, Brendon slowed his pace and loosened his grip, so we walked side-by-side more casually.

“How long do you think this has been here?” Brendon asked.

“I honestly have no idea,” I said, brushing my hand over the foliage. “It can’t be too long—someone would have found it and talked about it.”

“Maybe there’s a trigger for the spell?”

I frowned as I considered that option. “That’d be a pretty complicated spell. It would require specific conditions to be met that you and I happen to fall into. I’ve walked these woods alone hundreds of times and never stumbled across it, which means it requires at least two people. Kit and the Good Wizard probably walked this same path last night, and they didn’t mention anything about a maze.” Given Kit’s flare for the dramatics, I couldn’t imagine her leaving out such an important element of the story.

“Could there have been a physical trigger? Like a pressure point in a dungeon floor that sets off all the traps?”

“That’s not a bad suggestion,” I said, squeezing his hand. “But those old dungeons were controlled environments. They may get the occasional rats or other pests, but these forests would have deer, maybe even wild boar, all heavy enough to accidentally set off any trap. One of us also should have felt some sort of shift if we’d stepped on a suspicious patch of dirt.”

“Not that I would notice,” Brendon replied, gesturing to his armor. “I can’t feel anything in this getup.”

“True, but I think it’s fair to assume that for a construct like this, the trigger had specific targets. Which means it either appeared after Kit and the Good Wizard came through last night, or they didn’t meet the conditions.”

“What kind of conditions would they not meet?”

I glanced down at our joined hands and blushed. “There’s a chance that—well, I’m sure Kit and the Good Wizard weren’t exactly—she and Franny—I don’t even know if she likes—you know her better—”

Brendon arched an eyebrow. “Do you plan to finish any of those sentences anytime soon?”

I saw another crossroads ahead and said in a strangled voice, “Look! Our next quest,” and tugged Brendon forward.

There were only two paths: to the right the maiden statue, to the left the old man. We’d probably have to answer at least one question and confess one secret to escape the maze. Would the requirements get harder the further we went?

“Which one?” Brendon asked. “Questions or secrets?”

I looked between them. If the cost of passage did rise with each crossroads, it’d probably be better to get the secret out of the way now. “Left.”

Brendon nodded and we approached together, still holding hands. I was pretty sure we’d completed the task, but I didn’t let go.

“If you would like to proceed down this path, you must confess one secret,” the old man grumbled.

“What kind of secret?” Brendon asked.

The old man’s lips pursed in thought—or like he was chewing something—then he said, “Each of you must confess one secret fear.”

“Easy,” I said. “Spiders.”

“Heights.”

I blinked and looked at Brendon in horror. “You’re afraid of heights?” And I’d locked him in a fucking tower. Where the only bed was up a narrow, winding flight of stairs. I suddenly remembered the moment on the stairs when he’d tripped, and I’d caught him. Remembered his trembling hands, his wide eyes. He’d been terrified and I’d been fucking horny.

Brendon shrugged as if it wasn’t important, though he wouldn’t look at me. He tugged me forward to pass the grumbling old man. The statue’s face contorted, the wrinkles deepening, the lips pulling back in a snarl.

I scrambled backwards, bumping into Brendon’s metal chest. He steadied me and switched his grip to put his arm around my waist, holding me close to his side. “Guess that wasn’t a big enough secret,” he said, his breath tickling my ear. “Do you want to see what the question is?”

I arched my neck to look beyond Brendon’s broad shoulders to the maiden with her sweet, demure expression. The gargoyle had been terrifying, but its task had been easy. The old man was sort of neutral—ugly face, harder question. I shuddered just thinking about what the maiden might have in store. “Fear isn’t so bad,” I said, turning back to the old man. “We just have to … delve a little deeper. Unless you want to …?” I trailed off, leaving him to choose after he’d just asked me to.

“Confession it is,” Brendon said. He squeezed my hip and then grabbed my hand again as we stepped forward.

The old man went through his spiel again then patiently waited for our answers. I opened my mouth, then closed it, because I couldn’t think of what to say.

Brendon spoke first. “I’m afraid I won’t ever experience romantic love.”

My hand reflexively tightened on his. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight, hand limp in mine. I thought of his letters to Franny, so desperately trying to connect with someone who kept ignoring him.

“Brendon—”

“Both of you must answer in order to pass,” the statue interrupted.

I swallowed roughly around the lump in my throat. “I’m afraid—” The last few days passed before my eyes, every choice I’d made even knowing it was wrong, all the dark creatures entering the kingdom only after I’d fucked up.

You are perilously close to a life of evil, the Good Wizard had said, and the only evidence he had for that was that I owned a magic tower. He didn’t even know what I’d done with it. What would he say if he knew I’d used that tower to lock away a prince? That was classic, textbook villain behavior. No matter what my motivations were, I knew how it looked to outsiders—I’d experienced the backlash before.

But as I stood there, holding Brendon’s hand, the memory of his taste lingering on my lips, I thought to myself: I’d fucking do it again.

“I’m afraid I’m actually evil, and that I’ll somehow destroy the kingdom if I stay here.”

I tugged Brendon forward without looking at him, sighing in relief when we successfully walked down the path.

As soon as we were out of view of the statues, Brendon forced both of us to a stop. I glanced up at him, then quickly away when I saw his dark expression.

“Rick.” The sound of my name so simple, yet somehow a wordless command. I looked back at him, and he said, “You’re not evil.”

“The wizard thinks I might be,” I whispered.

His lips parted in surprise. Then he shook his head and said, “The wizard represents all of the good in the world, he probably thinks ants who ruined a picnic are evil. Whatever happened, you didn’t purposefully set out to hurt anyone.” He squeezed my hand tighter and declared, “You. Are. Not. Evil.”

I forced a smile and pretended to believe him. “And you’re not unlovable. I know Franny—”

“It’s not just your sister,” he interrupted, shutting down my poor excuse for a pep talk.

“Oh.” I thought of all the rumors of his conquests. How many times had he been looking for love, and they’d only wanted something from him? His title, his wealth, his body, everything except his heart. If I could just tell him … I didn’t know what I’d tell him. That I might, someday—maybe sooner than I expected—be able to love him? If he could forgive me enough to take the chance. Maybe it was time to tell him about the Good Wizard’s marriage alternative.

While I tried to unjumble my words, we started walking again. I still didn’t know what to say by the time we reached the last statue. Instead of a crossroads, it led straight into the heart of the maze. The maiden waited for us, serene in her patience.

When we approached her, she said in her sweet voice, “To enter the heart of the maze, you must answer one question.”

“What’s your question?” Brendon sounded tired. We were both ready to finish this maze.

“What is your favorite thing about your partner?”

I gawked at the statue, then looked behind us, even though I couldn’t see the other paths from this angle. “No way.”

“To enter the heart of the—”

“What’s the matter?” Brendon asked, looking in the same direction.

“I finally realized what this is,” I groaned, my cheeks heating in embarrassment. “It’s a fucking Newlywed Maze.”

Brendon frowned in confusion. “A what?”

“It was a popular couple’s retreat that fell out of style when the magic shops closed,” I explained. “It’s a way for newlyweds to bond and get to know each other.”

“Ah, that would explain the hand holding,” Brendon replied, holding our clasped hands up between us, lips quirked in amusement. “When we do get to the center, what then?”

A thousand potential options filled my head. My heart pounded in a mix of excitement and nerves and my throat dried. Soon, the nerves overruled the excitement as I pictured rejection after rejection, a surprised reaction morphing into disgust. Or worse, pity. Maybe it would be better to climb over the hedgerows.

Brendon apparently wanted to find out. “My favorite thing about Rick is how flustered he gets at even small touches.”

I gaped at him, thinking of all the times he’d brushed up against me. Gods dammit, he had been doing that on purpose!

He grinned back. “Your turn.”

Though he looked cheerful, there was a nervous sort of edge to his smile—like he was afraid I didn’t like anything about him.

My own nerves calmed. Whatever lay at the heart, even if my worst fears came true, I had to answer the question. “My favorite thing about Brendon is”—his smile, his eyes, his hands, his tongue, his ass—“his mood swings.”

“My mood swings?” he demanded incredulously. “I don’t have mood swings.”

“Of course you do,” I replied, suppressing my laughter at his baffled expression. “One moment you’re furious, the next you’re horny, and after that you’re relaxed but serious.”

“Mood swings,” he muttered for the third time, “that’s a horrible way to phrase it. People complain about mood swings, they don’t praise them.”

I squeezed his hand gently. “Yeah, but it also means that your bad moods are easier to lift.” For a moment, I pictured us in the future, him grumpy—probably from something I did, since I always seemed to fuck up—and me coaxing him out of it …

It sounded perfect if we could ever get to that point.

Brendon scanned my face, as if trying to decipher the real meaning behind my words. To prove I wasn’t lying, I dragged him forward, into the heart. If I’d tried to bullshit the statue, she would have turned into a monster like the others. Instead, she remained placid stone, and we entered a lovely little courtyard with a fountain at the center.

The statue at the fountain was the same maiden, except instead of a bust, she was fully formed, and she held a lyre. As we approached, she began to strum a quiet melody. At the base of the fountain was a folded flannel blanket, a picnic basket, a bottle of sparkling wine, and two flute glasses. I finally released Brendon’s hand to pick up the wine bottle and popped the cork.

“Why is there no exit?” Brendon asked, turning in a slow circle. Even the path we’d come through had closed, leaving us isolated in the heart of the maze.

“Well, consider what this was designed for. Newlyweds, who—hopefully—just went through a close bonding experience. A picnic of”—I lifted the lid to check the contents—“strawberries, dainty sandwiches, and other finger foods. Wine, music, a comfortable blanket …”

“So, we have to fuck to get out of here?”

I sputtered and looked at him in shock. He assessed me with both frankness and a little bit of heat, like he didn’t find the condition hard to fulfill. Maybe if he’d said it differently—used some corny phrase like ‘make love’ or a tone that implied more fun and less duty—I would have gone along with it.

Instead, I focused on pouring two perfectly even glasses of wine as I explained, “Not necessarily. There’s probably a timer—an hour, maybe two—that will give us some privacy before we’re expected to rejoin society.”

“Shame.” His face was perfectly neutral as he took one of the glasses from me, his fingers barely skimming mine. He raised it to his lips and slowly sipped, his eyes locked on me as he savored the pink, bubbly wine.

I drank my own glass too quickly and almost broke the flute when I slammed it down on the fountain edge. I grabbed the blanket and fanned it out, laying it on the ground. Brendon started to sit down, then almost toppled over. I had to grab onto his arm and help him down to the ground. Once settled, we laid out the lunch. It hadn’t been long since breakfast, but the food gave us something else to focus on.

“There’s more in here,” he said, holding up two books.

I picked up a cucumber sandwich and idly nibbled it. “What are they?”

“One Hundred and One More Romantic Questions,” he read out loud from the first one, and then, “Advice for the Married Couple: How to Stay in Love from Newlywed to Deathbed.”

“That is both romantic and a little creepy.” I held out my hand and he gave me the advice book. I flipped to a random page and read aloud, “Section Thirteen: The Importance of Communication.”

“Ah, always a good one,” Brendon said. “Strawberry?”

“Oh, sure.” I looked up and found that, instead of handing the strawberry to me, he was holding it up to my lips. They parted almost as much in surprise as to accept the offering. I took the plump flesh between my teeth and bit down, sweet juice filling my mouth. The whole time I couldn’t look away from Brendon’s blue eyes, crinkled slightly in the corners from mirth.

“You’ve got a little,” he murmured, trailing off as his thumb brushed down my chin, cleaning up a trail of spilled juice. He raised his thumb to his lips and licked it carefully, his tongue a quick, teasing flick. “You were saying?”

It took me a long moment to remember what I’d been doing. The book had fallen from my hands, landing splayed facedown. I picked it up, but it’d fallen on a different page, and I stared at it aghast—Communication in the bedroom.

“Are you going to read it?” Brendon asked, sipping from his flute, eyes slightly hooded as he watched me.

“Uh, no, it’s all … nothing, um, what about yours?”

He set his flute down, fingers lingering, caressing the long cup, then down the stem, back up the cup again before releasing it. “Let’s see,” he said, picking the question book back up. He flipped through the pages, searching for just the right one. When two pages stuck together, he raised his fingers to his lips and licked the tips, then carefully pried them apart. “Describe your first kiss.”

I blinked, surfacing from a lusty daze. “What? That’s not even a question. Let me see that.” I reached for the book, but he held it up and away from me. I almost crawled on top of him to reach it but came to my senses just in time. I settled back onto the blanket and pursed my lips. “These books are ridiculous.”

“Well, we have no idea how long we’ll be here, we’ve got to do something to pass the time,” he said with a casual shrug. “My first kiss was with Kit. We were probably four, maybe five years old. I remember the taste of mud—though I don’t know if that was before or after, since she’d shoved me into the dirt right after the deed.”

A snort escaped me before I could suppress it. “Guess she really didn’t want to kiss you.”

“That’s the thing,” he replied, his face crumpling in mock distress. “She had kissed me, then shoved me down.”

I burst into laughter, then clapped a hand over my mouth. My stomach hurt from trying to hold it in.

Instead of looking offended, he grinned. “See? Yours can’t be worse than mine.”

Worse was a matter of perspective. “Oh, you know, it was average. Like most first kisses—awkward, uncoordinated, soggy.”

Brendon choked on his drink, pink wine burbling over his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, more practical and less sexy than when he’d cleaned my face. “What do you mean soggy?”

“Well, wet isn’t the right word. That sounds too …” My eyes locked on his still glistening lips. “Wet can be fun, and sometimes necessary, depending on where your tongue is.” He snorted and we shared suggestive smirks. “But ‘soggy’ conveys that kind of gross, uncomfortable feeling of having someone lick all over your lips.”

“No,” Brendon groaned. “No, they didn’t!”

“They did,” I confirmed with a grin. “It was … an experience.”

He poured himself another drink and topped off my flute. “Well, at least they didn’t almost bite off your tongue,” he said, his amusement fading as his smile drooped. “Not my best work.”

You could try again. I took a long drink to drown out the words and cool the fires of my lust. Get to know him better first, then jump his bones. Wait, no, get to know him, propose the marriage idea, then sex. Order was important, and we’d fucked it up from the beginning. This maze and these silly little question books had given us an opportunity to get back on track. “What else is in there? Anything neutral?” Probably not with that title, but I could hope.

He flipped through the book and held it up as he read out loud, “What is your ideal way to spend an afternoon?”

I grinned and grabbed another dainty sandwich from the picnic basket. “This way isn’t so bad.”

He smiled back at me, soft and happy. “I’ve had worse.”

I don’t know how long we spent snacking, drinking, asking questions. We didn’t always answer them. I vetoed some, he skipped others, flipping through pages until he found something he liked. Eventually he dozed off, the book resting on his armored chest. I drifted off soon after, thinking, yeah, I could spend a lot more days like this.