Page 113 of Beyond the Cottage

Ansel approached with a gilded box. “Is this for jewelry? It’s locked.”

The witch screeched. She hobbled to her knees and launched at Ansel, grabbing something off a table on her way.

“Mine!” she screamed, wildly slashing. He got her around the neck, but the momentum crashed him against a bookshelf.

Gretta flew across the room but not in time.

“Fuck!” Ansel cried. Blood dribbled from his bicep, and a serrated seashell clattered to the floor.

With a vicious snarl, Gretta clutched a handful of gray-white hair, yanking, and sliced her knife across the witch’s throat.

A warm spray, a wet gurgle. The body dropped with a fleshy thud.

“Are you okay?” Gretta panted.

“Fine.” He glanced at his arm. “It’s a scratch.”

“Ansel, I can see muscle!” She stepped over the corpse and took his arm, frantically inspecting the wound. It needed about five stitches.

Though it could have been worse—his throat instead of his arm—guilt churned her guts. She should have ended it when they realized the repellent worked, not hung around for a pointless chat. She’d promised not to be stupid, but she’d almost gotten Anselkilled.

She brushed her fingertips over his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It looks worse than it feels.”

“I don’t care, we’re taking care of this immediately.” She dragged him to a tattered couch and pushed him to sit. “Take off your shirt.”

He shrugged out of the shirt, once again displaying his bare chest. Too anxious for lechery, Gretta ripped the hem into strips, leaving enough shirt for him to wear back. She doused one in rum from her flask and gently dabbed his wound.

“This is the second time you’ve saved me from a witch,” he said, wiping blood off his face with his shoulder. “I fear my manhood is more damaged than my arm.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve established there’s nothing wrong with your manhood.” The comment slipped out on its own, but she brazened through with a sheepish smile. “Keep this here.”

He held the cloth in place, and his eyes followed her as she rummaged through the clutter.

When she found a sewing box and matches, she set them beside his thigh and sat. “This is my fault. I should’ve listened when you told me not to fuck around.”

“We were both careless. Considering what we learned today, I’d say it was worth it.”

She gingerly took his bicep, drawing it closer. “You need stitches.” She looked up, chewing her lip. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Ansel’s pulse leapt at the idea of her tending to him. Still, he eyed the sewing box with skepticism. “Have you done this before?”

“Once or twice. Embroidery floss isn’t an ideal suture, but it’ll work for now.”

“Alright,” he sighed.

He settled in to enjoy her fussing but didn’t allow himself to fixate on her comment about his manhood. It was friendly banter. She’d always been fond of teasing. In fact, he’d missed that about her. The evidence that they were truly friends again continued mounting.

Gretta found someplace to wash her hands. She cleaned his wound and residual blood spatter before scorching the needle with a match and soaking the thread in rum.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Ready.”

The needle entered his skin, and Gretta winced harder than he did. “This okay?”

“Fine,” he said tightly. The mending hurt worse than the damage, but he’d had stitches before, and her movements were gentle and efficient. Jaw clenched, he stared at a grimy wall.

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