Page 111 of Beyond the Cottage

He considered a moment, studying her face. Finally, he relented. “You better let me know if you need help.”

“I will.” And she meant it.

They continued on in silence until a cramped hovel appeared on a cliff. Its boards had worn to silver, and pine needles littered the roof. Gretta might have thought it abandoned if not for the smoke curling from the chimney.

She took a deep breath of the clammy air. Here was Ansel and Gretta taking on another cottage, another witch. But now they weren’t defenseless.

“Spray me,” she said.

Ansel took a bottle from the case and carefully misted every inch of her. After doing the same to him, she unfurled her silver cloak and put it on. Finger to her lips, she led him to the witch’s front door.

She crouched to inspect the lock—a basic tumbler. She quickly picked it and oiled the hinges.

When she gave him a reassuring wink, he returned it with a tentative smile. The last of Gretta’s fear blew away on the breeze.

She turned the knob and welcomed herself in.

Ansel leaned against the clapboard cottage, ears trained. Gretta moved like a ghost inside. She likely flew because not a squeaking board or rustled curtain gave her away. The quiet unsettled him more than a brawl.

He imagined kicking the door in, changing their strategy from stealth to brute force, but he stopped himself. He believed her when she said she knew what she was doing. Besides, bursting in like a rabid bear would only put her at greater risk.

He focused on a dead rosebush, a broken fencepost, a tree that had been scorched by lightning. For a third time, he glanced at his watch.

A yawn climbed his throat, but he was too tense to let it out. Bone-deep fatigue didn’t improve the wait. He’d barely slept the night before, rather, stared at Gretta’s back, watching her breathe, contemplating the fact that he’d fucked his childhood best friend.

Hiscurrentbest friend.

And he wanted to do it again.

It hadn’t helped when he’d woken from a doze to find Gretta’s face in his neck and her naked thigh cuddling his morning erection. Another day with the Eater would have tortured him less. He’d nearly nudged her awake to see if she wanted to compound the damage they’d already done, but he’d instead escaped to a cold bath.

She’d clearly established their night together was a one-time thing. And that remained for the best. Fucking her had been a decadent, staggering, unforgettable experience he shouldn’t have let happen in the first place.

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. And he couldn’t unfuck her, so there was little point in stewing about it. He’d simply move on and embrace her friendship with gratitude. He’d keep his cock in his pants and his heart off his sleeve.

He wouldnotfuck this up.

A piercing screech came from the cottage, and Ansel shot straighter, muscles coiled to spring.

Gretta opened a window. “I’m fine! Just need a minute.”

Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds passed before she poked her head out again.

“Oh my god,” she said. “This place is a sty. But if you can stand the smell, come on in!”

Chapter 39

As Ansel rushed inside, Gretta opened another grimy window. A sharp breeze tousled her hair and billowed her cloak, cooling the flush on her skin. She faced him, holding back a dopey grin.

“So?” He eyed the witch writhing on the floor. “Did it work?”

“Anse… Your repellent isincredible.”

His mouth slowly spread into a grin. Gretta skirted a pool of blood and threw her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. He embraced her back.

The witch groaned, her impressive bosom straining with each breath. Her hands covered the wet gash in her stomach.

Ansel and Gretta released each other and stood over the soon-to-be corpse.

---