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“Yours,” I gasp. “And you’re mine.”

He moves, and I hang on. The fire crackles in the main room. The rumble hums through his chest into mine, and the bed creaks like it’s filing a complaint. Then the base of his cock starts to swell. He goes still and looks down at me.

“Wren?”

“Yes,” I say. “Holt. Yes, please.”

He snaps his hips, burying his cock deep, and the knot stretches me wide. He’s so big it’s a tight fit, and I am so full that I gasp. When he’s fully seated, he swells and we’re locked together. The stretch almost hurts, but it feels so good I never want it to end.

He shudders over me. “I love you,” he says. “I love you, little bird. I love you.”

Then he comes with a roar that rattles the windows, and I go right over the edge with him, holding on for dear life.

Afterward, we lie on our sides, still locked together, his big body curled around mine and his hand stroking my hair. His heartbeat thumps against my back, slow and strong.

“Twenty minutes, you said?” I whisper.

He kisses my shoulder. “Maybe more.”

I smile into the pillow. “Good.”

CHAPTER 12

WALK THIS WAY

HOLT

The Harvest Festival starts at nine, and by eight-thirty, three hundred people are waiting at the trailhead.

I know because Celeste is counting them. She’s on a hay bale by the gate with a clicker in each hand and a glittery VOLUNTEER sticker on her shirt. Every time someone new joins the crowd, she clicks and yells the number at me.

“Three hundred and four!” she shouts. “Three hundred and six! Oh, a baby. Three hundred and seven!”

I stand at the back, where I always do. My shirt is clean. My boots are polished. Wren ironed my uniform last night, which took her forty-five minutes and most of a can of starch.

“You look very handsome,” she told me when she finished.

“I look like a tent.”

“A very handsome tent.”

Now she’s at the front of the crowd in her own uniform, her purple hair in a braid and her lip ring catching the morning sun. She’s talking to a family from three states away, waving her hands, explaining the frog ramp. The kids hang on every word.

I could watch her all day. Most days, I do.

Prue climbs onto the hay bale next to Celeste and taps a microphone that squeals. Everyone winces.

“Welcome to Hidden Wonders,” Prue says. “This trail was built by our wildlife officer, Wren Nicholls, and our ranger, Holt Ashford, and about sixty of you who turned up with shovels when the road washed out. Thank you.” She looks at me over her glasses. “Holt. Wren. Get up here and cut the ribbon.”

Three hundred and seven heads turn to look at me.

Every part of me wants to step back into the trees.

What if a kid starts crying? What if somebody screams? I’ve heard that sound before, on the worst day of my life, and I never want to hear it again. Not here. Not today, on her day.

Then Wren turns too, and holds out her hand.

I walk through the crowd. People step aside to let me pass, but nobody screams, and nobody stares at me like I’m a threat. A man pats my arm. An old lady says, “Good job, dear.” A teenager with a tusk cookie gives me a thumbs-up.