Page 17 of The Witch's Fate
I nod my head without thinking, hoping it looks polite and restrained. “I can sleep on the floor.”
IDALIS
I’m out of the habit of existing in close quarters with others. It’s been far too long and I find myself out of sorts. Almost curious but also apprehensive with every sound he makes.
I should’ve realized that before, I suppose, but no one has stepped inside my home since I lost my coven. That also means no one has slept under my roof since then. No one has needed anything of me since then. The shifter’s presence is as if the storm is now brewing inside me.
It’s not that he is loud—he is not. He is almost entirely silent. Which I find intriguing. He’s quite large with broad shoulders and his handsome form is at odds with the cozy warmth of my home.
By the time I offer him a bed on the floor, ithasto be late evening. The bed consists of an array of pillows and a knitted chenille comforter on top of three thick quilts, one of which I’ve had since I was a little girl. It’s enchanted and the fact that he held it without consequence is a good sign. I remind myself of that as I shift under his heated gaze. The sound of the rain has carried me—both of us—through the day. The hours came andwent. It is still, I think, earlier than I would normally go to bed but?—
I do not know how to converse with the wolf and my thoughts are preoccupied by the absence of magic. What exactly has happened? Nerves prickle their way through me and leave me with unease. So he should sleep, so I may think of a way to undo all of this. Immediately.
I do not think I could fall asleep now even if I did get into bed. The idea of drifting off to the sound of rain is laughable with this muscled wolf taking up all the room in the cottage. It seems so commonplace to offer him tea and food, but he insists he does not need either. Still he looks at me, nearly through me, as if he is starved. It’s unsettling in a way I’ve not felt. The heat and tension are palpable although I pretend they are as nonexistent as his appetite.
I’ve been alone so long that even a single, tall, handsome soldier is enough to take my breath away. Swallowing thickly, I ask him if he needs anything, to which he shakes his head no. It’s odd how I long for him to tell me “no” so I may hear the rough timbre of his voice and even odder that the moment I have that thought, he does so.
“No, thank you,” he says, and my heart betrays me with a little flip and then a skip in my chest. I find it hard to breathe every time I look at him. I cannot just go about my bedtime habits while he stands there.
I have so many questions for him that my mind buzzes like a beehive, but the tension keeps them trapped inside. It is so thick between us that my face will not cool down. I must be as red as the midsummer roses along the back gate. My heart beats hard, as if he’s watching and waiting for me undress. I’m only standing at my worktable, but I feel exposed—and desperate to get behind his leather armor to the soul concealed inside.
I keep asking myself what it is about him that makes me feel this way, but surely it’s obvious, I’ve not seen a man in so long. Let alone one so…delicious. Hardened muscles and rough stubble… I am a woman after all…and not blind to his charm.
I pat my hands on the skirt of my dress and steady myself.
“I was thinking of making some tea and a little food before I turn in for the night.” Does my voice seem as loud to him as it does to me? It can’t really be helped—the rain still roars on the roof—but suddenly I have no idea what the right volume is, or whether I’m using it. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but would you like to sit in the kitchen while I do that?”
He rolls his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “I would be happy to help.”
I wave this off. “That isn’t necessary. Come sit and keep me company.” The moment the words leave me I question them. How very…bossy of me. Clearing my throat, I shake off the unsettled nerves and stop questioning myself. “If you’d like,” I add to soften my demeanor. Our eyes catch then, and my heart does the same little torturous flip. Ripping my gaze from his I lead the way.
The wolf shifter moves his pack to the door, where it won’t be underfoot, and follows me into the kitchen. I put the kettle over the fire and chop up the potato. Then I move on to some vegetables I grew the day before last and tip them into a pot with beans and broth and some meat I had under a preservation spell. On a stormy night like tonight the kitchen witch in me demands a hearty soup. Smugly I wonder if the smell of the soup will tempt him to eat. He’s already denied me twice and a third time won’t do.
After all I feel a desire to feed him. To offer him warmth and comfort. My mind drifts and I quickly shut down the thoughts that come.
The shifter accepts a seat at the kitchen table and a cup of tea, sipping it slowly while I move around the kitchen. His large hand around the delicate porcelain saucer forces my lips to pull into a smirk. I have to make an effort to keep my hands steady. I am not embarrassed about cooking—the moons know I have been the only one to cook for myself for the last three years—but I can feel his eyes on me. As the spices are added I ask them to nourish our bodies. I speak more to the soup itself, in my head, than I do to the company I currently keep.
I don’t know how to start a conversation. Every time my lips part, my breath seems to leave. As if it rushed out of me and left the words themselves behind. I saw how his eyes went wide when he saw me before. I can feel the heat in his glances. He finds me interesting, and I like the way he looks at me. I more than like it.
The soup bubbles in the pot, and I lean over it, the strangest feeling in my chest.
Is it hope?
Is it something more?
Should I feel this way, when I am meant to be alone?
The questions pile up as I ladle out two bountiful bowls of soup.
The storm is the loudest part of the meal. The soldier tries to ask a few questions about the cottage and the storm, and I tell him that I have lived here nearly all my life, and I have never seen a storm this strong come through. I can barely look at him while we speak.What has come over me?
Otherwise, we focus on eating the stew by candlelight. My smile grows with the small groan of satisfaction as he eats. An urge to tease him for denying his hunger at first threatens to spill from my lips. But I keep them shut, merely admiring the roughness of his hands as he eats.
When the stew is gone and we’ve shared a small loaf of buttered bread to wipe the bowls of every drop, I show him to the small bathing room in one corner of the cottage. It only takes a wave of my hand to fill the bathing tub with hot water. I don’t miss the way his shoulders straighten as I wave my hand. How he pays attention to my every movement.
He’s intrigued and I love that. I, too, find myself intrigued.
He accepts a small stack of towels and washcloths with an expression of mild surprise on his face, then shuts himself in. I stand with my back to the closed door, hand on my racing heart, wondering what he looks like in the nude. The moment I catch myself wondering I roll my eyes at myself.
