Page 13 of The Witch's Shifter
“Thank you,” I whisper to him. He grunts in response.
Fetching my mortar and pestle and a few jars of herbs—white willow bark, devil’s claw, cat’s claw, and yucca—I begin to concoct a potent pain reliever. Once I’ve crushed them all down, I spoon them into a cotton tea bag, drop it into a cup, and pour steaming water over it.
With Rowan’s eyes burning a hole in my back, I leave the kitchen and step into the comforting warmth of the parlor.
Faolan is sitting on the edge of the couch, hunched over slightly, staring into the flames. The firelight dances across his face, illuminating the sharp cut of his cheekbones and brow bone. He sits up when I walk in.
“I’ve made you a tea. It’ll help with the pain.”
He reaches for the cup and gives it a tentative sniff. Then his lip curls up in disgust.
“It smells terrible.”
“I know.” I sink onto the couch beside him and let out a tired breath. “But it’ll offer some relief.”
Though he doesn’t appear convinced, he gives me a small nod. “Thank you... Aurora?”
That’s right, I never told him my name. I suppose he just heard Rowan call me by it.
The cup is still steaming when he lifts it to his lips and gives it a small sip. By the look on his face, you’d think I was asking him to drink warm mud. It almost makes me laugh.
After swallowing some down, he places the cup on the low table. Then he turns to me, and I suddenly feel very small beside him. He’s at least Alden’s height, if not taller, but his body is leaner, longer, bound in muscle. My eyes sweep across his chest, his broad shoulders, his defined arms. Every part of him looks chiseled and cut, like he’s never had a slice of apple-cinnamon cake in his life.
We should probably change that if that’s the case.
“Why did you help me?” he asks, drawing my gaze back to his.
“Because you were hurt,” I say simply.
“Do you always help injured creatures?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like to see suffering.” I tilt my head at him, trying to understand what he’s getting at. “If I can help, why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you’re just prolonging the inevitable.”
“The inevitable being . . . ?”
His eyes are cold and hard when he says, “Death.”
“So, you wanted me to leave you out there in the cold to die? Is that what you’re saying?”
He lifts his uninjured shoulder in a shrug. “Where I come from, weak is the worst thing you can be.”
“And is that what you think you are? Weak?”
This time he has no reply for me. He just turns his gaze back to the fire. It seems he’s not willing to spill his secrets so easily.
After some time of listening to the wind blow and the flames crackle, I sigh. “Tell me what you meant when you said I’m your mate.”
Without turning to look at me, he replies, “What is there to explain?”
One of my brows arches as a bolt of irritation goes through me. “Plenty. I wasn’t aware shifters could mate with witches.”
“Witch,” he mumbles, finally turning toward me. “I wondered what you were. You don’t smell quite...” He sniffs the air. “Human. Close though. And there’s something else.” He sniffs the air again, but I scoot slightly away from him, a bit discomforted by his keen sense of smell.
