Page 16 of Hush

No harm.

But I stop before it reaches him and step back through brush that makes no sound. My shape folds seamlessly into the trees, less visible with each slow movement, until even the reflective burn of my eyes is hidden.

I move away from him, not far enough to leave him unguarded, only far enough that the pressure of my presence loosens from the clearing.

He remains still for a long while. I watch him from farther west as he finally exhales—a rough breath that makes my claws flex into the earth. He gathers his things, looks once to where the light had been, then walks back toward the trail to his den.

I follow behind him, keeping my steps light and quiet as he returns to his den safely, pausing when he sees the bundles still there. For a moment, he looks down at it, then back to the forest, before he walks inside and closes me out.

I have scared him. The truth remains even after his heartbeat has slowed inside. I meant to show him only the edge of my presence, to comfort him with the scent of his mate. Instead, I gave him fear.

Tomorrow, before he wakes, there will be another gift on his steps. Not birch this time, but something softer. I will gather fern still curled tight from spring growth because it opens slowly and does not demand the sun all at once.

I will add cedar for shelter, yarrow for mending where fields grow wild near the abandoned fence line, and one small white stone from the creek. No Labrador tea, since the scent frightened him tonight, and an apology should not reopen the wound.

He may not know what it all means, but I will know. The forest will know.

My little ember was afraid, and I stepped back.

Tomorrow, I will leave proof that I can.

7

Lucas

The second bundle is waiting for me when I open the front door.

Morning spreads through the trees in slow, pale light, catching on damp leaves and making the whole yard look washed clean after last night.

And there, neatly next to the first one, sits a new bundle.

I don’t look away, and it feels really dramatic. I never used to be a dramatic person before I moved back to Sweet Rivers. Now I’m having weird dreams, smelling plants that should be nowhere near my cabin, and seeing blue-white lights in the forest at night.

Five months ago, my biggest supernatural belief was that Sarah Knox could smell unsigned paperwork from two rooms away. Now, I’m standing on the porch of my cabin and wondering if something out here is trying to have a conversation with me.

The new bundle is different. It’s smaller, and somehow softer—if forest debris can look soft. The twigs are thinner, and they’re bound with pale strips of inner bark so carefully, I can see where each loop was pulled tight but not tight enough to break.

Curled fern heads are tucked through the middle, while dark, familiar cedar lies beneath them in flat sprays. Several stems of yarrow are also woven through the tiny white buds, not yet fully open. At the center rests a smooth creek-polished white stone about the size of my thumb.

I immediately notice that there’s no Labrador tea, and my chest reacts before my brain gets permission. “Okay, that’s… not better.”

Except, some part of me thinks it is, and that’s the problem.

Something in me looks at the bundle and understands it. Not in words, exactly, but in pressure and shape. The fern, cedar, yarrow, and stone—all offered without the scent that scared the hell out of me last night. It feels more like someone setting a hand down without touching me.

An apology.

The thought hits so clearly that I step back, my heel bumping the threshold.

“Nope,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair hard enough to tug at the roots. “Absolutely not. Plants don’t apologize. Weird forest stalkers don’t apologize. That’s not a… thing.”

The trees don’t answer, which is rude considering how much they’ve had to say lately.

I glance toward the forest edge despite myself. Nothing moves out there except early light and wind stirring the pines. It looks ordinary—worse, it looks beautiful. That’s the trick of this place, I guess. It gives you morning birds, dew, soft cedar smells, and the kind of quiet that makes your shoulders drop even when every logical part tells you to run.

I don’t run. I don’t touch the bundle either. Instead, I stand there long enough for the cold porch boards to bite into my bare feet and last night’s dream to crawl back, making my face go hot.

I slap both my heated cheeks with cold hands. “What the hell is happenin’ to me?”