Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hawthorne family dinners were usually riotous affairs with at least half a dozen conversations going on all at once, but this dinner might as well have been a wake for a fallen witch. The Hawthorne witches ate quietly, only the scraping of spoons against bowls and quiet munching to be heard.

Aunt Peony had cleaned out my refrigerator to make cauldron stew, or what everybody lovingly referred to as a bowl of scrap outside of Aunt Peony's hearing. It was some sort of cousin to gumbo, as a dark roux was its base, and then any vegetables and meat you had on hand went into it with a hefty spoonful of spices and a bunch of broth. Today's was sausage and chicken drumsticks with sweet peppers, onions, and tomatoes I'd canned from the garden. She served it over fluffy white rice with butter-topped biscuits on the side, and you weren't a Hawthorne if you didn't start the meal off with at least two biscuits on your plate.

Uncle Badger had poured the beer, serving Arthur last yet giving him the largest mug, and Aunt Hyacinth had made the fancies—aka cocktails—something Flora, Daphne, and Shari could definitely get behind. After the chatter necessary to pass the butter to whoever wanted it, or hand out extra napkins—no one asked for the salt and pepper, for Aunt Peony knew how to season her food perfectly the first time around—no one spoke. Otter was still rubbing the back of his head after Aunt Hyacinth had cuffed him for greeting Arthur with a "'Sup, Grizz?"

Arthur was so big he was forced to sit at the end of the table, directly across from where Grandmother sat at its head, and she made sure to flay him alive with her eyes the entire meal. The lumberjack shifter knew he was in enemy territory and did nothing to aggravate her, other than what his mere presence already did, nor my father, who sat directly on Arthur's left. Unlike the other witches, Dad hadn't changed out of his battle leathers, and he kept his right hand flat on the table between him and the shifter, the knife in his wrist sheath just a thought away from sliding into his palm. Arthur feigned ignorance, but I could tell by the way his leg pressed against mine—the only touching we would get away with tonight—that he wasn't as relaxed as he looked.

Meanwhile, the Crafting Circle ladies sat in a line beside me, Daphne sandwiched between Flora and Shari so she could keep an eye on her ward and the other on the rambunctious garden gnome.

The quiet crafter was the first to finish her meal, rubbing the butter of the biscuits off on her cloth napkin with an obsessive resolve before pulling her bag onto her lap immediately after so she could return to her spur-of-the-moment crocheting project—a sweater for Flint. Beside her, Aunt Eranthis leaned over to examine the pattern.

Braving the tension and endearing him to me even more, Arthur asked me softly, "How does it go getting your brother back?"

"That's none of your concern, bear," Grandmother said immediately.

He leveled her a look that would have had a human break out into a sweat. "It is. Meadow is of concern to me, thus is her brother."

Of concern to me . Not exactly the most romantic of words, but I still appreciated them.

"Cody tells me you're coming by tomorrow to forage," Arthur said, his words once again for me. "Oh, and sorry. I forget. Cody said you needed more of this." He pulled a jar of honey from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. "Said you wouldn't quit nagging him about it?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Perfect timing," Aunt Peony said, rising and plucking the jar from the table. She bustled away into the kitchen, presumably to add the honey to one of her potions in the hearth room.

Swallowing my stew, I wiped my mouth on my napkin before answering his question. "Yes. Apparently we need more blackberry lily rhizomes and milkweed seed pods, among other things."

"Trade secrets, Meadow," Aunt Hyacinth scolded.

"Will you be there this time?" I asked Arthur.

Thistle thorns, I hope I don't sound as desperate as I feel . I hadn't realized until I saw him again this evening that an ache had taken root in my chest. When the bond between us had been but a tether, it'd been easier to ignore, or at least forget about. Now that it had thickened and tightened into that chain, I found myself hungering to be with him.

In his presence , I had to convince myself. Not just in his arms .

"If witches needed shifters to accompany them on foraging expeditions, we'd never get anything done," Aunt Hyacinth announced to no one in particular.

Arthur ignored her, and so I did I. His hazel eyes grew rueful. "Sorry, sweetheart," he rumbled lowly. Beside my father, my mother stiffened at the endearment. "Coalition business. It has to be conducted in person."

"Is everything… okay?" I ventured. I wasn't sure how much he could share in front of me or anyone else not tied to the organization.

Aunt Eranthis actually choked on her stew when Arthur's hand slid across the table to cover mine and give my fingers a squeeze. It was an effort not to interlace my fingers with his just to be that much closer to him. Beside me, Flora just chuckled, sipping her cocktail and enjoying the tension.

"It is," Arthur assured me. "I'm just apprising them of recent developments."

"Spy." Grandmother spat the word out like it was a chicken bone Aunt Peony had left in the stew.

Amber flashed in the lumberjack shifter's eyes. "Guardian," he corrected firmly.

"That's what her family is for," Dad told him, the fingers of his free hand twitching in the anticipation of violence. I knew from experience just how quick he was getting those knives out their sheaths. He'd used them once against Arthur already, and I wasn't about to let him do it again, especially when he didn't have his bear hide to protect him.

"Dad," I hissed from across the table. By the Green Mother, I wish whoever had expanded it hadn't enlarged it so much so I could actually kick him under the table.

"Anyone care for more biscuits?" Aunt Peony chirped nervously, having reappeared with a fresh batch. There was nothing Aunt Peony hated more than angry conversation at the dinner table; she was convinced it spoiled the food, and as the witch who spent the majority of her time preparing that food for the entire coven, she didn't like to see her efforts wasted.

"Meadow will always have my protection," Arthur told the witches, his voice as deep as his resolve. "Whether it is by my hand alone or by the entire weight of the Coalition. The latter wouldn't be necessary if you've told her the truth about who seeks her. Have you?"

The effect was the same as if he'd yanked that basket of steaming biscuits from Aunt Peony's hands and thrown them against the wall. Every witch stiffened, except Grandmother, who remained as cool and unaffected as a glacier.

" That is Hawthorne family business, and none of yours," came Grandmother's crisp answer.

"But she's not just a Hawthorne anymore," he growled. "She is m—"

"You'll keep your barbaric notions to yourself or leave this house!"

Behind us, all the way in the hearth room, the Hawthorne flames blazed a fearsome green.

I erupted from my chair, keeping a tight hold on Arthur's hand. The farmhouse flames conveyed my fury as easily as the Hawthorne flames had done for Grandmother, and ivy-green light spilled into the hallway.

"And you all will remember this is my house," I seethed. "Arthur is my…" Friend didn't cover it—plus I didn't kiss friends the way I kissed Arthur—and I wasn't sure if boyfriend did either. He was something much more, something deeper. The man was ingrained in me, heart and soul. But I certainly wasn't going to say lover in front of my family and have them burn us both at the stake, irony aside.

I shook my head, unable to find the words, and plowed ahead, "You will treat him with respect. I don't know how many times you needed reminding, but it is because of him that we weren't lost to that portal."

"Hear, hear!" Flora crowed.

Daphne slapped her hand over the garden gnome's mouth.

"And before you came here"—I made sure the fury glowed in my eyes—"he gave me friendship and kindness when I didn't deserve it. He was there for me, as he is now, braving your venom for my sake, and all because he's a shifter and not a witch!"

My family looked sufficiently chastised, all except Otter, who sprang up from his chair to dash into the kitchen. The sounds of him rattling the fireplace poker free of its stand punctuated the silence hovering above the dinner table a second later.

Close to tears—my frustration and anger had to go somewhere —I sat back down in my seat, retrieved my spoon, and stabbed at my stew.

"Briars and brambles, Meadow," Otter exclaimed softly, returning to the dining room. "You got that fire so hot it started crawling across the floorboards!"

Arthur gently extracted his hand from mine and set his folded napkin on the table beside his empty bowl. "I should go." He stood, the muscles of his torso rippling as he straightened his spine. "That stew was excellent, Miss Peony."

My aunt flushed, either from Arthur's kindness or her own shame, and mumbled an acknowledgement.

He turned to me. "Meadow, I—"

"Will sit your butt back down. We haven't had dessert yet," I snarled.

He dropped into his chair so quickly it was like I had literally cut his legs out from beneath him.

Flora tittered beside me.

I glared at every witch at the table, daring them to protest. More than half of them dropped their eyes to their food.

"Would…" Aunt Peony had to clear her throat of the squeak in her voice. "Would you like some more stew, b— Arthur?"

"I'd love that," he replied, lifting his bowl. "And some more of those biscuits, please. Thank you."

Not knowing Arthur would be bringing cobbler, Aunt Peony had made her famous jammy tarts for dessert—shortcrust pasty filled with brandied apricot jam, strawberry jam with candied lemon, and succulent blueberry. Even though the plate of tempting tarts sat on the table next to Arthur's cobbler, no witch touched them.

Flora had initially reached out to put one of each on her plate, but I'd slapped her hand away. These too closely resembled Aunt Peony's tell-tale tarts, which would make you spill any secrets you wanted to keep hidden the moment that pastry dissolved on your tongue and that fruity filling filled your mouth with the taste of summer.

"They're not those tarts," she told us testily.

No Hawthorne made a move. They wouldn't risk eating one and telling Arthur and the Crafting Circle ladies anything and everything.

"Did you, or did you not, make these after I told you Arthur was coming to dinner?" I retorted.

"Yes, I did, but only because they were quick to make!" Taking one of the brandied apricot tarts, she shoved the whole thing into her mouth before snatching up the plate and whisking it back into the kitchen. A moment later, there were the fussing sounds of the electric mixer whisking heavy cream into stiff peaks.

Shari slumped in her seat, sighing quietly, "Those looked really good."

Aunt Peony returned momentarily with a massive bowl of sweetened whipped cream. She thumped it on the table with a mild glare at the rest of us. "You're eating those tarts tomorrow," she warned us. "Pastry's only good for one or two days and this witch doesn't waste food."

After she had (rather aggressively) topped everyone's portion of warm cobbler with a veritable mountain of whipped cream, the Crafting Circle ladies retreated to the loveseat in the den. They weren't leaving until the fate of the feral fairy was decided—plus Shari wasn't yet finished crocheting it a sweater—and Flora still wasn't convinced Arthur's "no" wasn't actually a "yes" in disguise when she had not-so-discreetly asked if Arthur would hold the witches off while she freed and rescued Flint.

I'd assured her that wasn't necessary, as Flint would be returning with her at the end of the evening. He was of no more use to the Hawthornes, just a liability. If the magic hunters did manage to track the fiáin down, they'd find it at Flora's place, which was probably just as warded as the farmhouse, and the sunlions and carnivorous clematis would certainly hold them off until help could arrive.

No one contradicted me, especially not after they saw the scorched hearth slates and floorboards in the hearth room.

Only Mom made a protesting sound when I asked Arthur to join me on the porch to eat our dessert in relative privacy, but I shut the door behind us as if I hadn't heard it. It opened a moment later, ejecting Otter wrapped up in a coat and a knitted beanie that flattened his long hair against the nape of his neck. He bobbed me a nod, took his bowl of dessert to the far end of the porch, and looked pointedly out at where the pixies dozed in their birdhouse.

"I like him," Arthur told me, swirling whipped cream into his warm cobbler and lifting a bite to his mouth. I watched the dessert disappear with a lick of his tongue against his bottom lip and a bob of his throat and decided right there and then that that I was very jealous of that cobbler. Arthur caught me staring at him. "Meadow?"

Dropping my gaze, I stabbed my spoon into my dessert and shoveled some into my mouth. Now was not the time to get all pudding-like around him, not with my family on the other side of some siding and drywall. If I had to concentrate on not choking, I wouldn't be thinking about him and that chain that hummed between us. I stuffed in another mouthful of cobbler, just to be sure.

The ceramic bowl clicked against the porch railing as Arthur set it down, his leather jacket creaking as he reached out and thumbed away the blackberry-swirled whipped cream from the corner of my mouth. He brought his thumb to his mouth, the cream disappearing past his lips, and amber flashed in his eyes.

It was only a half step back to find support against one of the porch posts. "How is it," I whispered, my dessert forgotten—which was a big deal for a Hawthorne—"that with everything else going on, I just want to be alone with you?"

From the way Arthur's weight was pitched forward, I fully expected him to reach for me, heedless of the dangers of my family, but something stayed him.

The desire in his expression changed to caution, and he asked, "What am I to you, Meadow? Under the maple tree, I thought you knew, but at dinner, you couldn't find the words."

"Oh!" I hadn't been expecting that, and the air in my lungs left in a frantic exhale. On the inbreath, I realized just how cold the November night was. It was crisp and biting, the rain fully gone and revealing a starlit sky. "I, um, well, ‘friend' and ‘boyfriend' certainly don't do it justice, do they?"

He shook his head, his gaze never wavering from my face.

"I… I don't know what the right word is, Arthur," I admitted softly, dropping my eyes to the space of porch between our feet. Thistle thorns, it was only the span of two deck boards, but it felt so vast.

" Mate ."

My heart stilled at the intensity of his voice.

Glancing up, I struggled to wrap my mind around the meaning he was infusing into the word. Mate? I'd only heard the term as it applied to the animal kingdom, as the bond between wolves or the act of making baby wolves. The term didn't seem as romantic and all-encompassing as soulmate or husband or fiancé , and it wasn't like Arthur had proposed or anything. Thistle thorns, he hadn't even said the L word. Neither had I. My confusion, my inability to fully grasp the gravity of what he was saying, must've been as evident on my face as the sun is in the sky on a cloudless day.

Arthur did his best to hide his sadness, but I knew him too well now.

His weight shifted onto his heels, increasing the distance between us, and he ran a hand through his brown hair. "That time in your bedroom, under the maple tree—"

"Please don't say it was a mistake," I whispered. Panic and fear were like two hands tightening around my throat and squeezing the life out of me.

"No," he answered quickly. "No. But… I can't be alone with you again. Not until you truly acknowledge this bond between us. You need to claim it, as I have."

"I don't understand," I said pleadingly.

"You're my mate, Meadow. The twin of my soul. You accept that I am the same for you, with your whole heart."

"I don't know how to do that."

Maybe it was because of Jeremy Rook, or from the months of denying my feelings for him, but there was a lock on my heart somewhere. Or some kind of obstruction. One that made me doubt, even now, after all Arthur had done and said, that I was worthy of it. His love. His devotion. That he was safe to trust with the whole of me. That he wasn't going to run away.

Because that's what I'd done to him. Countless times.

Was this what Sawyer was so afraid of? Of trusting and bonding with someone else so completely that where you began and they ended was now just a blurred line? How did you maintain your individual self, something you'd been crafting your entire life, in the face of that bond? And worse, what if they broke the heart you had entrusted them with?

If I hadn't already been supported by the porch post, I would have staggered into it. The lukewarm cobbler wobbled in the bowl as my hands trembled. "Arthur…" By the Green Mother, please let him know I was trying. Trying to comprehend. To relinquish myself to him.

"It's not something I can fully explain to you, Meadow." His voice was so soft, so encouraging. "Shifters are born with this knowledge, this instinct—it's engrained on our souls. It's not something you can look up and learn about in a spell book. You have to feel it, embrace it."

His inhale was shaky. "And until you can, I can't be with you in that way. I thought maybe being intimate, or even the words ‘mine' and ‘mate', would encourage your claiming of the bond, but…" Arthur shook his head.

A knot had formed in my throat where the fear and panic were strangling me, and it took more than one try to swallow and croak out, "Are you… leaving?"

"I'm not going anywhere," he said forcefully, taking hold of my hand. "I'll wait, for as long as it takes. I'm desperate for you, Meadow, but I can't compromise on this. This is something I need—to be equally chosen."

Despite his words, I felt this great chasm opening up between us. As much as he needed to be chosen, I needed reassurance. Right now. "Can… Can I hug you at least?"

"Oh, sweetheart." He pulled me in tight, encasing me in the leather jacket warmed by his solid body. Heat bloomed where his cheek pressed against the top of my head. "You are mine, Meadow. You can always hug me."

The thrum of those familiar words echoed in my bones, warming me much more than his body heat.

"But I need to be yours, too."

I nodded against his chest, and much too soon, in my opinion, Arthur eased himself away. Then he handed me my bowl of cobbler, retrieving his and giving it a stir with his spoon. "Now finish that. I slaved away and endured quite a few thorny splinters picking all those blackberries this summer, and a bear doesn't share his food with just anyone."

Only his mate .

I hoped, just as soon as we got Marten back, I would be able to use that word and mean it.