The god will return to his grove without my heart in his hands; I won’t be consumed by his no-longer-boyish mouth.
But it’s in the last few feet that I’m snared. As I’m about to leap into the shallow water, I’m caught from the side and thrown to the soft ground. I’m dimly aware of bluebells pressing against my back as the powerful form of my hunter crawls over me.
“Got you,” the god says, and he crushes his mouth to mine.
The drums are beating, beating, as if the hunt isn’t over, and it can’t be, I realize distantly, because the god isn’t finished with me just yet. Not at all.
The Thorn King lifts his head just enough to look at me. His pulse pounds at the hollow of his throat, and every tight line of his shoulders and arms and chest are a study in pure virility—the same when I loo
