Page 30 of The Witch's Shifter
In response, his hands trace up my low back and along either side of my waist, leaving heat and tingling flesh in their wake.
Suddenly, there’s a prick of pain on my side, and I pull away from Faolan with a gasp. We both look down to find his fingernails have transformed into claws, and one pierced right through my dress to nick my skin. Realizing what’s happened, he pulls away from me, leaving me seated on the counter, still breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says, backing away from me until the backs of his thighs bump the kitchen table. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.” I inspect the torn fabric and find that it’s only a scratch—nothing to be concerned about.
Faolan, though, looks ready to throw himself through a window again.
“Hey,” I say gently, drawing his stormy gaze back to mine. “I said I’m fine. Truly.”
“I hurt you.”
“Barely. It’s just a scratch.” I tip my head to one side and offer him a smile. “Now, will you come back over here?”
Clenching his teeth so hard I can see his jaw straining, he shakes his head.
“I shouldn’t.” His fingernails are still claws, and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, as if he were just running through the woods.
“Well then,” I say, slipping off the counter and crossing the kitchen to trail my hands up his chest, careful to avoid his many wounds, “I suppose I’ll have to come to you.”
He’s tense under my hands, even as I rise high onto my tiptoes to press kisses along his firm jaw. My mouth finds the smooth skin along the uninjured side of his neck, just below his ear.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asks.
It’s true. Ever since he collapsed into the leaves and morphed into his human form, I’ve not feared him. He startled me the other night, when he was so overcome by anger, but I still wasn’tafraidof him, just as I’m not afraid now.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully, still pressing my lips to the pulse throbbing in his neck.
Maybe it’s because I’m his mate, or am supposed to be, at least. I don’t want to reject him, but neither am I ready to fully commit to him. There are still too many unanswered questions, too much confusion and haze regarding what all of this means. We have time for that later. For now, all I want is to kiss him.
And finally, he gives in, his arms wrapping around me firmly.
But just as his mouth finds mine again, there’s movement behind me, and I know exactly who’s entered the kitchen.
Pulling away from Faolan, I glance over my shoulder, and Harrison is standing there, tail puffed up, looking like he might dive right back through his cat door and disappear into the woods again.
“Wait,” I say before he can do just that. I ease out of Faolan’s strong grasp, and as he and Harrison regard each other, I smile. “Faolan, I want you to meet my best friend, Harrison.”
Chapter 18
Alden
AS EVENING ROLLS AROUND, I find myself walking the streets of Wysteria. The lamp lighters have already been through, and flickering firelight bathes the city in warm illumination. Unlike last night, when everyone was chased inside by the storm, tonight people are out in droves, enjoying rowdy pubs, candlelit cafés, and ale-scented taverns. The air is heavy with fragrances, each competing to pull me in a different direction. But I know where I’m headed, even if I’m still not so sure why.
I find the town square easily enough—if most of the streets didn’t lead here, all the patrons would’ve guided my way. Indeed, as Belinda mentioned, there’s a great statue in the center of the square, a glittering bronze stag with antlers reaching high toward the night sky. Tiny flickering lanterns set about its hooves cast it in an orange light, making the metal glimmer.
Just past the statue is Boar and Badger—the large sign outside, paired with carvings of a boar and a badger, makes iteasy to pick out of the bustling places of business. It’s a two-story building made of wood and stone, and the windows on both levels glow with warmth.
I approach with a feeling of trepidation swirling in my gut. It’s not that I’m uncomfortable having dinner with Belinda; it’s that I don’t understand her reason for inviting me, or some of those looks on her face when I bumped into her in the yarn shop. But I suppose the only way to figure it out is by going inside.
The arched wooden door swings open, and three people step out, clasping their cloaks about their necks as they go. I move aside on the cobblestone walkway to let them pass, then grab the door and slip through before it can close.
Immediately, heat washes over me, chasing the chill from my nose and fingers. The tavern smells of woodsmoke, heady tobacco, and fragrant dishes, and if not for the din of patrons laughing and drinking and dining, I’m sure everyone would hear the great grumble my stomach gives out.
As I remove my cloak and step into the main seating area, my gaze scans the crowd. Most of the tables are full, and overhead, on the second level, people lean against the thick wooden banisters, chatting amongst themselves while sipping from oversize tankards of ale.
I don’t see Belinda on my first sweep, but on my second, I spot her sitting in a far back corner, gaze out the dark window beside the table. It seems she hasn’t spotted me yet. And so, I have a moment to regard her from across the crowded room.
