Chapter 22
Lyra
POPPY YAWNS, THE LIGHT FROM the bonfire reflecting in the round frames of her glasses. “I’m exhausted,” she says. “I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.”
Alina and Raelan are already gone, though I’m pretty sure wherever they are, they’re definitely not sleeping.
So it’s just me, Poppy, and Maeve still standing by the writhing fire, watching as festivalgoers dance around the flames to the tune played by a troupe of musicians standing on an elevated platform nearby.
“Same.” Maeve lifts her mead mug and swallows down the rest of it. “You coming, Ly?”
I’ve been waiting for this all night, an opportunity to slip away. Finally, it’s here.
I shake my head. “No. I’m gonna stay a while longer.”
My roommates give me quizzical looks.
“You sure?” Maeve asks. “The festival’s almost over. And besides”—she tips her head back, eyes regarding the cloudy night sky—“it’s about to rain.”
I can’t see anything in the clouds, but being a storm witch, Maeve can probably feel the rain moving in.
Trying to be nonchalant, I shrug and say, “It’s the fire. I just wanna stay a while longer, watch the flames.”
Poppy and Maeve exchange looks, then seem to accept my reasoning as fair. I’m a fire witch—of course I’d want to spend more time with the fire.
Or with Cairn, but they don’t need to know that.
“Okay.” Poppy squeezes my hand. “We’ll see you back at the room, then?”
I nod once. “Yeah.” Then I remember I promised to bring Juniper some treats, and the booths are quickly closing. “Actually, will you do me a favor?”
They nod.
Hurriedly, I move booth to booth, purchasing Juniper a caramel apple, a slice of warm pumpkin bread, and a crinkly bag full of cinnamon-spiced nuts. Poppy and Maeve take them from me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Just want to make sure she gets them in case I’m late.”
“She might like us more than you now,” Maeve warns with a flick of her silky hair over her shoulder.
I let out a laugh. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“Okay, see you soon,” Poppy says.
The two of them move away from me, the flickering candles that float midair lighting their way as they go.
Finally alone.
Crossing one arm over my chest and sipping from my mug of mead, I turn back toward the flames, staring into them as they move against the chill of the autumn night.
And only when I’m certain my roommates have made it back to the castle do I cast my gaze toward the other side of the flames, where Cairn has been manning the mead booth all night.
It was almost impossible to keep my eyes off him, to resist the urge to keep glancing his way.
My roommates are perceptive, and they would’ve noticed right away.
I swallow down the rest of my mead, liking the way it makes my skin tingle and my head sway.
It takes the edge off, just a bit, and makes me perhaps a bit more reckless than I should be.
But it’s nighttime, and most of the festivalgoers are one or more mugs of mead in.
They dance and laugh and sway together before the fire, not paying any attention to me as I head toward Cairn’s booth, my boots crunching softly through the dried grass.
There’s one witch at the booth when I get there, but she quickly takes her mug and moves away, and then Cairn looks up and meets my eyes.
A wave of heat goes through me, warming the spot between my thighs.
I remember seeing Cairn here last year, remember thinking he was rude and brash and being annoyed by his gruff nature.
But looking at him now, with his long hair knotted atop his head and his horns gleaming in the firelight, all I can think about is his warm voice, the way he so tenderly cared for that injured red fox, the feel of him beneath me as I sat in his lap on the blanket under the stars.
He was hard that night, his cock pressing against me through his trousers, but he wouldn’t let me go any further, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since, wondering what he’d feel like inside me.
And if the way he’s looking at me right now is any indication, I’m pretty sure he’s been thinking about it too.
Slowly, I walk toward him, liking the way his gaze follows the movement of my thighs, which slip through the slits in my dress and shine silver and orange in the pale moonlight and dancing flames.
When I make it around the booth and step up beside him, his throat bobs with an obvious hard swallow. My lips quirk up in response.
“Hi,” I say.
He draws himself up, fingers curling into fists at his sides. His nose ring winks in the firelight as he moves his head. “Miss Wilder. Do you need something?”
He’s using his formal faculty voice. And I understand—there are still festivalgoers around us, students and professors and people visiting from Wysteria. But I can’t help pushing him, just a bit.
“No.” I prop a hip against the booth, knowing it exposes one of my legs completely, the slit in the dress revealing my skin from ankle to hip. Cairn’s gaze flashes down, and he swallows hard again, then turns away, looking at anything but me. “I’m here to help you,” I clarify.
His nostrils flutter when he snorts. “I don’t need any help. You should go enjoy the festival.”
Tipping my head, I regard him—his wide shoulders, broad chest, strong frame. I definitely don’t want to be anywhere else right now. Except maybe somewhere alone . . . with him.
“I already am.” I stare at him until his dark eyes slide toward mine. “So, how can I help?”
He looks like he’s about to send me on my way, to tell me to get off his booth and go irritate someone else. But then he sighs and gives a subtle shake of his head, and I know I’ve won—at least at this game. But I’m still many levels from where I’m hoping to get with him tonight.
Sniffing the air, he says, “There’s a storm coming in. If you really want to make yourself useful, you can help me start packing up.”
“Okay!” I push off the booth and prop my hands on my hips, tossing him a grin. “Where do I start?”
With another sigh—he seems to do that a lot around me, though I’m starting to find it endearing—he points to a few big bins full of dirty empty mugs. “Get those loaded up in the cart; I’ll need to take them to the castle kitchen tomorrow for cleaning. And I’ll start putting the kegs away.”
“Will do.”
We work together, not speaking, just moving around each other, like we do when we’re working on the grounds, whether raking or weeding or preparing the gardens for the cold to come. And we have impeccable timing.
Cairn is just putting the last of the kegs onto the cart when the first few raindrops start to fall. They’re fat and they’re cold, and I gasp when one hits my forehead before trickling down my nose.
As the sky opens up and a deluge of frigid autumn rain starts to fall, Cairn grabs the cart handles and says, “Run!”
A squeal of delight bursts out of me as Cairn takes off at a jog, me and the cart trundling along behind him. While many of the festivalgoers run for cover, some remain dancing around the fire, like the rain only heightens their experience.
The festival is held in the castle courtyard, so Cairn and I have to run all the way under the barbican and down the path to his hut at the edge of the woods. I’m glad I wore boots tonight—something appropriate for running through misty fields and over slick cobblestones while rain falls.
I keep laughing as I run, invigorated, and soon, Cairn is laughing too. He has such a wonderful laugh, deep and rumbly. I wish he’d laugh like this more often. Maybe I can help him with that. The idea of it warms my chest.
By the time we finally get to his hut, I’m soaked through, my dress clinging to me like a second skin, wet curls hanging limp and sticking to my face, neck, and shoulders. I shiver a little bit, but not from the cold. If I weren’t a fire witch, I’d probably be freezing right about now.
“Get inside!” Cairn calls to me over a roll of thunder.
I only hesitate for a moment, wondering if he knows what he just did, what he just invited me to do. We’re in an autumn rainstorm at night, and he just invited me into his home.
Not that I’m complaining. I’m very much not complaining.
I yank the wooden door open while Cairn grabs a big canvas tarp to toss over the cart. The last thing I see before stepping inside is him unfurling it, his arms flexing beneath the long sleeves of his forest-green tunic, dark eyes narrowed against the frigid raindrops.
Inside his hut, the sound of the rain is dampened by the thatched roof.
It’s dark, and the air is cold. I peel off my soggy wet boots and leave them on a mat beside the door.
Now in bare feet, I cast my gaze around the darkened space.
The furniture appears like hulking shadows lit only by the scant bit of moonlight that manages to sneak through the thick rain clouds hovering outside.
Having been here once before, I know my way around—kind of—and am able to find my way into the sitting room and to the hearth.
I discover that Cairn has already stacked logs in the fire, so all I have to do is call a little flame into my palm (carefully, of course) and blow it into the kindling tucked into the logs.
Thankfully, the fire responds to my coaxing—without trying to burn anything down.
Immediately, the sparks catch, and the fire soon bathes my face in light and warmth.
I sit back on my heels, smiling to myself, even laughing a little at the memory of running through the rain, chasing after Cairn as he left hoofprints in the soft earth.
I think I’ll remember that for many years to come.
A moment later, the door opens and closes, and then Cairn appears in the wide doorway to the sitting room. I stand and meet his eyes.
His long hair has come loose from the knot it’s usually tied up in, and damp curls fall around his cheeks and chin. The tunic he’s wearing is sopping wet, the lovely forest-green color turned almost black with rainwater.
Plop. Plop.
Water drips off of him, landing in a puddle near his hooves. He seems to notice it at the same moment I do and quickly says, “I’ll grab towels.”
I nod once, and when he’s gone, I take a deep breath. My heart thumps rapidly, a mixture of nerves and excitement curling through me.
Cairn returns a few moments later, now dressed in a dry long-sleeved tunic and trousers, and he reaches out to hand me the towel, keeping his body far from mine, like perhaps he’s nervous to come too close.
But that’s exactly what I want.
Take it slow, I tell myself as I accept the towel with a gracious smile. Don’t want to scare him off.
The thought makes me smile to myself. It’s a bit funny, considering he’s a minotaur yet I’m the one who has to be careful not to push him too far too fast.
Gentle giant, indeed.
Using the towel, I scrunch my curls until they’re no longer dripping, then dry off my arms and legs. My dress is getting uncomfortable now, still wet and sticking to me. I need to get this thing off—either by his hands or by mine.
“Do you have something more . . . comfortable I could put on?” I ask.
Cairn is in the process of scrubbing his face and beard dry, but he stops and looks at me over the edge of the fluffy towel.
I gesture to my dress and arch a brow.
He hesitates for so long that I wonder if he’s forgotten how to speak.
So, I say softly, “Maybe a sweater? I just need to get dry.”
Finally, he nods. “My room’s there.” He gestures with his head, his horns casting shadows on the walls. “Pick anything you like.”
“Perfect, thanks.”
As I walk past him, he steps out of my way—so far out of my way that I can tell for sure now he’s trying to avoid being too close to me, yet I feel his eyes on my back as I walk down the short hallway to his bedroom.
And when I turn around to close the door, he’s too slow to glance away before I catch him staring.
Cairn’s bedroom is simple and minimal, while also being spacious enough for him to navigate around comfortably.
A huge bed takes up one wall, and the candles burning atop his nightstand gently illuminate the armoire standing near the window.
I pull open the drawers one at a time, allowing my fingers to drift over the fabrics, imagining all the while what it would feel like to touch Cairn’s naked skin, to know what he looks like from the neck down—seeing as he’s always in tunics and trousers, I don’t even know where the human part of him ends and the bull begins.
How big is he? I wonder as I pull a soft lightweight knit sweater from one of the drawers. It smells like him—like earth and flour with a hint of sweetness.
Stripping out of my dress, I let it flop into a wet heap upon the floor.
Naked now, I glance back toward the closed door.
Should I walk out there like this? Show him what I want him to do to me?
The idea is tempting, for sure, but I don’t think he’d go for it.
I can already hear his voice in my mind, telling me we shouldn’t, we can’t.
But we can. And we should.
Abandoning the idea, I slip my arms into the sleeves of the sweater and pull it on over my head. It falls past my knees, and the sleeves very nearly drown me—I have to roll them up again and again, resulting in funny bulging cuffs, just to gain free access to my hands.
I look down at my legs. The sweater is longer than most of my dresses, so I opt to forego trying to find something for my lower half. It would probably be a fruitless endeavor anyway.
After scooping my wet dress up, I open another door off his bedroom and discover a washroom with a big wooden tub. A shelving unit nearby holds a large bar of soap, and the sink has a single toothbrush.
He’s so organized, it makes me want to cause a bit of chaos. But I’m pretty sure I do enough of that as is, so I instead opt to just drape my wet dress over the side of the tub, leaving it to drip dry.
Then I go to find my minotaur.