It’s a full sentence. A hard stop. But Alder never listens.
He closes the gap between us, moving with that quiet confidence that once hooked me and might still. His hands brush mine like I was never in control to begin with.
My body goes still. The air between us turns thick, heat coiling between my skin and his fingertips. Alderfinds the zipper and slides it down in one slow, measured movement, his fingers grazing my spine just enough to set off sparks.
“You don’t have to do everything the hard way, you know.”
I hate that he makes it sound so simple.
His hands fall away, but his presence stays, heavy in the air, filling up every space I don’t want him to.
“You’re free,” he murmurs.
I don’t thank him.
He didn’t do this to be kind. He did this to remind me how easy things could be if I just let him back in.
I retreat into the dressing room. The curtain falls between us, but it’s not enough. I can still feel him.
I get back into my clothes and take one final look at the singed golden-brown ends of my ponytail before grabbing my purse and the dress and stepping out of the room.
Alder is still there, watching, waiting, and I hope he’ll stay rooted in place in his polished shoes and his suit so perfectly pressed it hurts. I try to slip past, but he moves at the last second. Before I can react, his hand is on my arm. His grip is firm but careful, his thumb pressing against my wrist in a touch that feels like possession disguised as restraint.
“Gemma.” My name is a warning, a promise, an order he knows I’ll obey.
Heat ripples through me, slow and unwanted.
I pull away from his grasp because if I don’t, I’ll stay. “I’m only here for the wedding,” I say, but the words taste like a lie.
I push forward, and I’m almost at the door when the shop manager’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Don’t miss the cake pull!”
I freeze. Slowly, I glance back at her. “Cake pull?”
“Oh, yes.” She nods, her dark gaze piercing from beneath spidery lashes. “It’s a wedding tradition. Each ribbon in the cake leads to a charm…and a future.” Her attention flicks to Alder, then back to me while her fingers brush the silver pendant at her neck. “Be sure not to miss it. The charm is magickal and always guides you to what’s meant to be.”
I want to scoff, to say something dismissive and sarcastic. I don’t believe in fate, in magick, in charms and party tricks that claim to know my future.
But her words settle into my bones like a spell.
Even though I don’t believe in magick, I do believe in Alder’s hold over me, in the way he stands there, undeterred, knowing absolutely everything. Knowing I’m a breath away from giving in.
And I hate that, somehow, it does feels like fate.
The shop is suddenly too small, too white and pastel and full of magickal dreams I want no part of.
I catch Alder’s eye again, and he shifts, moving like he’s going to come after me, going to push, going to say whatever it is he thinks will break me down.
And I know, if he speaks—if I let him speak—I won’t be strong enough to resist.
So I do the only thing I can. The same thing I did six months ago.
I run.
Three
The wedding reception is in full swing. The tent, pitchednear a sparkling lake on the perfectly manicured lawns of the Charleston Island Country Club, glows with golden lantern light. Tables are draped in soft ivory linens, centerpieces burst with blooms, and the air is fragrant with roses, gardenias, and sweet buttercream.
