Page 32 of Hell Hath No Fury
But I did.
CHAPTER FIVE
The act of getting the man inside, undressed and treated was a welcome distraction from the reality that this was the first time I’d crossed the threshold of the cottage since my mother left it.
It still smelled of her as the structure itself creaked and warmed to welcome its new resident. It had always been slightly alive—as everything was—responding to each resident, changing things as it saw fit to suit the needs of the current witch.
The bed in the second bedroom rose up to help me deposit the man on it. The kettle whistled with boiling water I needed to clean his wounds.
There was much to do. He was not out of the woods yet, even if I’d plucked him from the edge of them.
He had a broken leg and a gaping wound in his stomach that appeared to be a stab wound. I’d already used my magick to slow the bleeding, to repair the internal damage that would kill him in the night. Although it would cost me, I was able to completely heal him of all injuries and have him walk back into the night with no memory of me or this place.
I didn’t do that.
Instead, I pulled off his clothes, starting with his black motorcycle boots, crusted with mud. Next were his jeans. Slick with blood and soaked, they took me a hot second. It wasn’t entirely because I was looking at his strong, muscled thighs, both of his legs covered in tattoos… A lighthouse on a cliff being battered by a wild sea… Old Nordic gods and goddesses… A large, open-mouthed wolf, snarling, with blood dripping from its teeth.
“Death may be the greatest of all human blessings.”
My gaze stuttered over the script. Socrates.
A story of this man was beginning to emerge. His lighthouse, used to signify dangerous, rocky terrain, situated on the most treacherous parts of the shore. The feral wolf. Wild. Dangerous, bloodthirsty.
Even the goddesses and gods.
Vidar, the silent god of vengeance.
Freya, the goddess of fate and destiny.
Interesting choices for a male covered in muscles and tattoos, who most would not expect to know Socrates or the importance of ancient Nordic gods.
And then, of course, there was the significant bulge in his underwear. My thighs pulsated upon seeing it, sudden and urgent need clutching a hold of me. Then I remembered that he was unconscious and close to death, making me a fucking scoundrel and everything I hated about predatory men. Or men in general.
Though that didn’t stop me from appreciating his chiseled abs and broad chest.
My gaze lingered longest on his face, though, tracing the line of his jaw, the shadow of stubble that was stark black against his pale skin. His eyelashes were the same and his eyes were squeezed shut. Everything about his body was wired, taut instead of relaxed as it should’ve been. He was in the deepest sleep a body could conjure, a state that should’ve been restful to the soul. Yet he looked tortured, like he was ready for battle.
I felt a kinship with the chaos I sensed inside of him. A brutality and darkness that I recognized and met with my own.
The high-pitched whistle of the kettle reminded me of what I should be doing, and I quickly straightened, rushing to the kitchen to gather what I needed.
Cabinets opened to show me a bowl, a jug, various towels and supplies.
My feet found their way to the center of the kitchen. Drying herbs hung overhead along with pots, pans and other utensils that gently clanged together. The large butcher block in the island was cluttered with mortar and pestles, plants, crystals, bowls of fresh fruit.
I ran my fingers across the neat line of jars. The shelves went from floor to ceiling, bottles labeled with my mother’s sloping script.
‘Passionflower:to calm a chaotic mind and promote sleep.’
‘Black Cohosh Root & Mugwort:for a child not yet ready for this world.’
‘Tulsi:to fight infection and fever.’
I grabbed Tulsi along with a handful of other herbs, using some to brew tea, grinding others together to use as a poultice.
Working on instinct and autopilot, I gently washed, treated and bandaged the muscled, tattooed stranger in what could be now construed as my bed.
I didn’t realize until I’d finished that the comforter and sheets were not ones my mother used. They were dark shades of gunmetal and charcoal, the quilt cover a soft and luxurious velvet.
