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“Use your hand. Dig a well,” he prompts.

I set the shovel aside and push my fingers into the warm soil, making a small hollow in the center while he watches. When he seems satisfied with my work, I open my other hand, drop the cherry seed into the little well I’ve made and gently brush the soil back over it.

“Water,” he says.

He points toward a barrel fed by an eclectic collection of pipes, one of which disappears through the exterior wall and steadily drips melted snow into the water barrel below. I take the cup sitting beside the barrel, fill it, and carefully pour the water over the soil. Satisfied, I return the cup and stand.

I stare down at the little clay pot and think about how much my father would probably love to taste a cherry. I picture myself telling him about it, trying to explain the sweetness of something he’s probably never tasted either, and I have to look away from the pot before I let myself follow the thought any further. I offer Rhys a small smile instead, grab my sweater, and turn to head back the way I came.

If I can find the kitchen, I’ll cut myself a piece of cheese and some bread before returning to my room. Somehow, the room feels slightly less restrictive when I know the door is open.

“Wait.”

I freeze immediately, every bit of nervousness returning as I hear him move behind me. When I finally gather enough courage to turn around, he’s standing right there. His hand lifts toward me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself to be grabbed and dragged out of the greenhouse.

Instead, his palm comes to rest against my cheek.

His hand is warm against my skin, his fingers curving gently along the side of my face. I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I lean into his touch, some of the tension leaving my shoulders at the unexpected gentleness. When I finally open my eyes, he’s simply watching me.

“I want you to tell me more stories.”

I blink at him. “About your family?”

A smile touches his face.

I stare at him because I’ve never seen him smile before. It changes him enough that for a few seconds, I almost forget how frightened I usually am when he stands this close to me.

“No,” he says softly. “Those are ridiculous. I want to know about your life in the village.”

I tilt my head slightly and lean harder into his palm before nodding. “I can do that,” I whisper.

He drops his hand and follows me out of the greenhouse. Somewhere along the way, my stomach growls loudly enough that I know he must hear it, but being hungry is so familiar that I ignore it without thinking twice. He holds out his hand instead, and after only a moment of hesitation, I slide mine into his. He doesn’t yank me along or force me to walk in front of him. He simply keeps my hand in his as we make our way down the corridor side by side.

A few minutes later, we reach the kitchen. I glance cautiously at him because despite this strange shift in his behavior, he still terrifies me enough that I’m careful about every move I make around him. I cross to the wheel of cheese and pick up the knife, but before I can begin cutting, his hand closes lightly around my wrist and he takes it from me.

He slices several thick wedges of cheese before pulling down some of the sausage hanging above our heads and cooking it in a pan. Then he toasts slices of bread and begins cutting fruit. I find myself hoping he’ll produce more cherries. Instead, he slices a pear and divides everything between two plates, then sets one in front of me.

He sits beside me.

I stare at him because I’ve never actually seen him eat despite the countless meals he’s brought to my room. He always delivers my food and leaves me with it. It never occurred to me until now that I have no idea where he goes afterward or whether he eats the same things he gives me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

He doesn’t acknowledge the gratitude, but he doesn’t get up and leave either.

19

Rhys

Once we’re finished eating, I collect the plates and wash them because consistency and continuity matter to me. Leaving dirty dishes sitting around simply because Boone is here makes no sense. When everything is returned to its proper place, I dry my hands and gesture for him to follow me. I don’t get the chance to reach for him. He slips his hand into mine without being asked, and I tighten my grip just enough to acknowledge the gesture.

I lead him back to my room because that’s where the chair and fireplace are, and I’ve decided that’s where I prefer listening to his stories. I open the door and step aside to let him enter first. Soleil isn’t here today, but Boone barely seems to notice her absence. The moment he sees my bed, all the color drains from his face.

I look toward the bed, then back at him. His breathing changes, each breath deeper than the last, and the tension returns to his body so quickly that I know exactly what he expects to happen in here.

“Tell me a story,” I prompt. “Afterward…” I glance toward the bed again. “Teach me how to be gentle with you.”

His eyes narrow suspiciously as he studies me, searching for the cruelty he expects to find somewhere inside the offer. He doesn’t believe I’m capable of touching him without causing pain, even though yesterday proved that I can when I choose to listen to him.