Page 16 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

“Easy,” I murmur. “They’re scared.”

“They hurt you.”

“And you didn’t.”

He goes quiet.

I pick up a sock. Knitted with clumsy care. Marta’s work, probably. The same hands that ripped my mother’s necklace off. “They don’t get to rewrite history.”

“What will you do?”

I drop the sock. “Let them stew.”

---

He takes me to the heart of the forest that night. The massive oak where I first touched the golden eggs is in bloom, white flowers glowing like stars.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

Kaelith wraps his arms around me from behind. “You did this.”

“We did.”

He nuzzles my neck. “Stay. Please.”

I turn in his arms. “Trying to convince me?”

“Yes.”

His mouth crashes into mine. We sink into the flowers, his hands everywhere. His touch is different tonight—reverent, almost shy. He peels off my dress like unwrapping a relic.

“Kaelith—”

“Let me,” he rasps. “Let me show you…”

He worships me.

With his mouth, his hands, the cold-burn of his skin. He lingers on every scar, every curve. When he finally slides inside me, it’s with a groan that shakes the petals loose from the branches above.

After, we lie tangled in the blossoms. He traces the bond mark. “This means… forever. In my tongue.”

“Good.”

He stills. “You don’t want time to—”

I kiss him silent. “I want *this*. The moss beds and shadow tea and you hovering while I read. I want the village girls to whisper about the witch who tamed the Reaper. I want *you*, Kaelith. All your centuries, all your silence, all your… *you*.”

His eyes glisten. He opens his mouth, closes it. Swallows.

I press my palm to his chest. “You’re my home.”

---

They come at dawn.

Father Durran leads the mob, clutching his rusted holy symbol. Twenty villagers flank him, pitchforks gleaming.

Kaelith steps in front of me, a living wall.