I tug free of his hold. “I can handle a few scratches.”

A considering tilt of his head. “Is this you punishing yourself for something? Or are you just taking your frustrations out on my garden because you can’t take them out on me?”

“You’d know plenty about distracting yourself from your anger, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes shut briefly. “What you’re doing to yourself isn’t about last night.”

I could deflect like I always do. Hide behind fury and loathing, parrot the usual empty words that I use to keep people at arm’s length. But that won’t work on him. It never has, not from that moment in Hellevig when he looked at me, understood the hunger beneath my skin, and let me cut him open.

That shadow snake fed and fed and fed.

“Is this why they call you the Wolf?” I sneer. “Because you’re like a dog with a bone? Weeds don’t pull themselves.”

“So your first thought was to hurl yourself into a rosebush and bleed all over it until something gave? Either the thorns or your skin?”

“You’re the one letting them run wild in the first place! Maybe if you cared about something other than playing butcher to the realms and toying with me, your flowers wouldn’t be devouring your damn tower!”

“Enough.”

An emotion flickers across his features—there and gone too quickly to catch, but if I didn’t know better, I’d almost call it regret.

Then he’s crouching behind me, wings flaring for balance. He tugs me between his legs, my back against his chest. This close, his scent invades my senses—citrus and petrichor. It fills my lungs and my head until I’m dizzy with it.

“Like this.” He reaches around me, caging me between his arms. “There’s a trick to it.”

I inhale sharply when he takes my hands, every part of me suddenly sparking to life at his touch. Wanting.

“If you want to understand a thing,” he murmurs in my ear, “you have to learn its nature. What makes it feel.” His voice drops low, intimate. Like we’re sharing secrets in the dark. “These roses aren’t like their mundane counterparts in Vartena. They’ll sense any frustration and impatience lashing at them. Listen to them. They’re trying to tell you something, but you’re too busy fighting to hear it. Feel my hands.”

I watch as he sets his hands under mine and works the soil. His movements are slow, almost reverent, as he shows me how to coax out the most stubborn weeds.

“When all the roses sense from you is anger, they lash back when you get close. Patience is key. You can’t go in like a woman on a warpath, or you’ll find yourself torn to shreds. You have to take your time.”

My face flames, and my stomach swoops. I know he’s talking about more than just the roses.

“Gentle, gentle,” he admonishes when I move to yank out a gnarled root. “Prove you’re not a threat, and it might surprise you how eagerly they open up and let you get at the things that hurt them.”

“Since when are you interested in being gentle?”

A hard exhale against my nape. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Five minutes of you not fighting me every single step. Let me guide you.” His fingers lace with mine, pushing my hand down into the soil. “Breathe out the anger,” he commands softly. “That violent urge to dominate, to make the world bend and break itself to your will—you have to let it go. All it will get you here is bled dry.”

“Tell me you see the irony,” I whisper.

His teeth graze my earlobe in warning. “Don’t give me a reason to reconsider this little lesson,” he whispers back.

Breathe out the anger. Let it go. Two snakes twisted around your heart. Which one lives?

The one you feed.

So I shut up. I let him lead, his body moving with mine as he shows me how to gentle the roses. It’s a lot like a different kind of dance—the slow drag of his calluses against my knuckles, the indecent way we slot together, the rhythmic flex and glide of our fingers in the dirt. A push and pull. A give and take. He advances, I retreat. He demands, I yield. Over and over, as implacable as the ocean tide wearing away stone.

“Like that.” The approval in his voice sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly. “You’re a quick study.”

It feels… good. To pour myself into this simple task and let everything else fall away. The solid warmth of him seeps into my skin, grounding me. Gentling me. Without conscious thought, I melt against him, my body going soft.

If he’s surprised by my surrender, he doesn’t show it. Just shifts his weight to better support me.

I lose myself in sense impressions. The drag of his calluses against my palms. The steady thump of his heart against my spine. There’s no room for anger here. There is only this. Him. Me. The roses.

“So why do they call you the Wolf?” I ask him, filling the silence.

“Many gods have several names,” he says, leaning around me to tug at a knot of turquoise weeds. “Ones given to us at birth. Ones we earn.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his wry smile. “What do you think I should be called?”

“Hawk, maybe. Because of your wings. Or another bird name.”

He laughs softly, tightening one arm around my waist as he bends forward to whisper in my ear, “Do I remind you of a bird?” His teeth graze my neck. “Or do I remind you of a wolf?”

Well, he’s got me there.

“Wings aren’t unique in Scillari,” he adds. “Earned names don’t come from something we’re all born with.”

“Then how did you earn your name?”

He goes quiet, and then, “You ask too many questions.”

I don’t push. I file the secret of his name along with all the others—why he lets these roses grow wild when he clearly loves them, why he hates my family. All of these little bits of him that he keeps hidden away, stacking like stones. Because he’s approachable like this. Vulnerable. The male beneath the god is someone I might like if we were anyone but who we are.

“It’s almost nice,” I say into the deepening twilight, “when you’re not threatening to devour my heart.”

A stutter in his breathing. I feel the whisper of a smile tucked into the crook of my neck.

“Why, Bryony Devaliant. Was that a compliment? Should I be worried?”

“Just enjoying the change of pace.” I focus on the hypnotic flex of his fingers against mine. On the way his skin shimmers like stardust in the falling night—such a striking contrast to the opalescent sheen of my own. “Waiting for us to revert to our usual animosity.”

The arms bracketing me go tense before forcibly relaxing. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes a god is just a male, wanting to make you feel good after making you feel bad.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, the words sound like they’re being dragged out of him. “Sometimes he says and does unspeakable shit he can’t take back. He fucks up and tries to make it right.”

“Is that your way of apologizing?” I risk a glance at him.

“Yeah. It wasn’t—” He blows out a short, frustrated exhale. Warm against my nape. “Last night wasn’t about you. Not really.”

There had been an emotion on his face yesterday. Past the manic gleam and the snarl and snap of his jaws at my jugular was a pain so deep that it cut like glass.

“Something hurt you,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

Something broke you.

“Yes.”

My heart trips and stumbles. I clear my throat. “A lot of injuries bleed beneath the skin,” I say softly, thinking about my days in Hellevig. “You can’t see them, but you feel them with every breath. It’s worse when someone else is there to witness you break apart.” My hands are trembling now, but I force myself to continue. “Especially if it’s someone you hate. Like you’re handing them the knife, knowing you’ll end up bleeding out all over the floor. But it’s easier, too, because they’re already primed to hurt you. And that means you don’t have to be the one to dig your fingers into your own wound. You get the agony without the guilt.”