Chapter One: Fever in the Pines

The night air was thick enough to chew—hot like breath on the back of your neck. Down in the fields, the work was long done, but the sweat hadn’t left her skin. It never did. Not since the hunger started clawing at her insides.

Miss Corinne Larkson paced the polished wood floor of her upstairs room, the hem of her nightgown clinging to her thighs. She had washed. Twice. But her skin still hummed, still flushed, and the basin water still smelled like sin.

She paused by the window. The moon spilled over the cotton rows like silver milk. Somewhere out there was the one she shouldn’t even have seen—much less watched the way she did. The way she lingered after supper, letting her eyes rest too long on the curve of his back, the dark sheen of his skin, the way his fingers gripped the axe handle. Her mouth went dry thinking about it.

Corinne dug her nails into the windowsill. “It’s a sickness,” she whispered, breath catching. “The Lord knows.”

The Lord might’ve known, but He wasn’t here. Not in that room. Not when her thighs rubbed slick under that white cotton. Not when she crept barefoot down the stairs, past her mother’s locked study, past the guest rooms, out the side door, and into the sweltering dark.

She told herself she was going to pray. That was her story. Down by the old sugar barn, where the tools were kept and the slaves weren’t allowed without permission. Nobody would be there. Nobody would see her slip out into the trees with her lantern low and her breath coming fast.

Nobody but him.

And she was counting on it.

Chapter Two: Tending the Fire

The barn loomed ahead, squat and heavy in the dark like something half-asleep but watching. Crickets screamed in the tall grass. The lantern swung in her hand, casting wild shadows over the dusty path, and every step Corinne took felt like a dare she wasn’t brave enough to speak aloud.

She stopped just short of the barn door, heart kicking at her ribs. Her hand hovered over the latch.

And then she heard him.

Not footsteps. Not words. Just a presence. The kind that made the hairs rise on her arms before her mind could catch up. Her breath snagged in her throat as she turned—slow, too slow—and saw him leaning against the far side of the barn. Like he’d known she’d come. Like he’d been waiting.

Elijah.

She didn’t know if that was his real name, only that it’s what the others called him. Tall. Strong. Dark like wet soil. And calm—always so fucking calm. Even now, when they both knew what this was. What it could be. What it could cost.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, quiet like it was for her alone.

“I came to pray,” she whispered, fingers tightening around the lantern’s handle.

He stepped forward. Just once. No more. “You always pray with your nightgown stickin’ to your legs like that?”

Her breath caught. Her cheeks flamed. She hated how fast she flushed under that gaze—hated it, and craved it.

“I—I was hot.”

He looked at her, slow and steady. Like he could see everything. Not just the rise of her chest or the curve of her thighs. No, Elijah looked like he could see the rot underneath. The hunger that curled around her soul like ivy, squeezing.

“I should go,” she muttered, turning.

But then he spoke again—soft, dangerous.

“You ran all the way out here to lie to yourself?”

She stopped. The silence between them stretched taut like rope. Her shoulders trembled.

“I ain’t touchin’ you,” he said. “Not unless you ask.”

She didn’t move. Not at first. Just stood there, feeling the heat throb between her legs like a wound. Her whole body screamed at her, begging her to cross the line. But one word—one yes—could damn them both.

“Say it,” he said again, deeper now. “Or walk away.”

Corinne didn’t answer—not with words. Her body moved before her brain could stop it, lantern swinging low as she stepped into the barn’s shadow. Elijah didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, just watched her like a fuse burning toward the powder.

Her bare feet hit the dirt floor with a soft crunch. The scent of old wood, dried hay, and sweat clung to the air. She felt the door behind her swing shut, and with it, the last bit of sense she had.

She set the lantern down.

He was inches from her now. Bigger than she remembered. Broader. His shirt clung to his chest in the heat, collar open, skin gleaming like polished bronze in the dim light.

“You sure?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered. “But I need it.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. One hand cupped her ass, lifting her, spinning her, pressing her back against the rough wooden wall of the barn. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and her nightgown bunched at her hips as his fingers found her—wet, needy, aching.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, breath hot against her neck. “You burnin’ up down here.”

She bit his shoulder to keep from screaming, teeth sinking into warm skin as the world narrowed to the hard press of his body and the rough wood at her back. Her eyes squeezed shut, breath tearing out of her in ragged bursts.

Somewhere beneath the rush in her ears, another sound slipped in—soft, wrong, out of place. A shift in the grass. The almost-snap of a twig that didn’t quite dare to break.

Corinne’s eyes flew open.

Over Elijah’s shoulder, past the hanging tools and the slant of the barn door, she saw it: a pale shape in the dark between the trees. A face. Wide eyes catching the lantern light just enough to make them real.

Mary.

For a heartbeat, Corinne forgot how to breathe. Shame hit first—hot and choking, rising up her throat like bile. She should’ve pushed Elijah away. She should’ve covered herself, pulled her nightgown down, done anything except what she did.

She held Mary’s gaze.

Her hips rolled instead of stilling, a slow, helpless grind that made Elijah groan low against her throat. Corinne’s fingers dug into his back, not to pull him closer, not exactly—but not to push him off either.

Mary didn’t move.

Those big, frightened eyes stayed locked on her, on them, on the way Corinne clung and arched and took. The air between the barn and the trees felt charged, like a storm about to break.

Corinne’s lips parted. For a second she thought she might beg—stop, stay, come here, she didn’t even know which. But the words caught behind her teeth, strangled by the dark, greedy part of her that liked knowing someone was watching. That liked knowing Mary was seeing exactly what kind of girl Miss Corinne Larkson really was.

Elijah murmured her name against her skin, oblivious, chasing his own ragged rhythm.

Corinne never looked away from the trees.

And Mary didn’t either.

But just then—outside. A voice. Faint. Distant.

“Corinne?”

She froze.

Elijah did too, every muscle in his body locked, still buried between her thighs.

Her mother’s voice, barely audible, floating on the night air like a curse.

“Corinne, are you out there?”

Her breath caught. Her whole body trembled.

He looked at her, eyes wide, lips parted. One wrong sound, one breath too loud, and it was over.

And yet, the way her hips twitched against his hand? She wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

“Do you think she’d touch me too?”