Page 162 of Her Wicker Guardian

The repair isn’t invisible. Several older pieces are darker from bruising or pressure, and the new willow crosses them in narrow green lines. Still, the structure is whole again.

I reach toward it. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

My fingertips move lightly over the repair. The new willow is warm and softer than the older growth, almost silky from the water. Beneath it, his slow internal rhythm presses steadily against my fingers. For the first time since the festival, the damaged place feels like part of him again instead of proof of what could have happened. Nothing feels loose. Nothing feels broken.

Locke watches my face. “Better?”

“Yes.”

He stands, and water pours from him back into the tub. My gaze goes straight to his chest, then drifts lower before I can stop it.

Locke notices immediately. I catch the flicker of amusement in his face.

“Don’t.”

Locke’s expression stays innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“Maybe.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re getting smug.”

“Am I?”

“Very.”

He steps out of the tub, and I hand him a towel. I’ve seen him naked before. I’ve touched all of him now. I’ve had him inside me. Familiarity isn’t helping. If anything, seeing him this clearly in daylight makes it harder to remember I’m supposed to act normal.

Locke dries his shoulders and arms while I watch the living weave of his body shift beneath the towel. My attention drops again.

The other night on the dark porch, touch told me far more than sight. I knew he was hard beneath my hand. I knew the surface of him gave slightly. I knew nothing scratched or caught or felt anything like the heavier willow of his arms and chest.

Now I can finally see why.

Above it, the soft green moss I felt beneath my fingers the other night grows in a neat patch where a human man would have pubic hair. In daylight it looks less strange than I would have expected, another living part of him that somehow belongs exactly where it is.

The weave forming his penis is different from the rest of him. The strands are so fine they barely look like branches at all, tiny supple lengths fitted densely together in shallow overlapping bands. At rest, the texture is subtle, the fine ridges relaxing close enough together that the surface appears almost smooth.

I stare until Locke catches me and pulls the towel across his hips, covering himself.

“Rachel.”

“Yes?”

“You were looking.”

“I’m aware.”

He glances down at the towel, then back at me. “Privacy?”

He’s smiling.

“That is deeply unfair.”

“Why?”