Chapter 23
Cairn
“HOW DO I LOOK?”
I turn at the sound of Lyra’s voice.
And the image of her in my old sweater, her pale freckled legs bare from ankle to mid-thigh, makes my heart skip a few beats.
Her curls are still damp and hang around her face in dark red ringlets.
Feet bare, she takes a few steps toward me, and I can’t decide whether I should scoop her into my arms or open the door and gallop outside into the still-falling rain in an effort to cool the heat building in my chest.
I don’t do either. Instead, I stand frozen in the kitchen, holding a tea kettle in one hand and two teacups in the other.
When I don’t say anything, Lyra plants her hands on her hips and tilts her head. A smile pulls on her mouth. “That good, huh?”
Snapping back to reality, I clear my throat and set the cups on the wooden table, then fetch a trivet to put the kettle on so it doesn’t burn the tabletop.
“Would you,” I start as Lyra sinks into a chair at the table, “like a cup of tea?”
“Please.” She crosses her arms on the table and smiles up at me, looking more innocent than I know her to be.
Her eyes throw little flames of warmth at my back while I turn to peruse my tea selection. “Lavender, lemon balm, or green?” I ask her without turning around.
“Hmm . . .” Her fingers drum out a soft rhythm on the tabletop, mixing with the sound of the rain thumping against the thatched roof. “I think lavender.”
I agree. After adding lavender leaves to two sachets, I grab my jar of wildflower honey and a silver spoon to go with it. Then I have nothing left to distract myself with, and I steel myself before turning and joining her at the table.
She watches with childlike excitement as I add honey to each cup, then pour hot water and toss in the sachets. Immediately, the calming sweet scent of lavender curls around us, and I breathe it in deeply.
Unfortunately, it does nothing to ease the frenzied pounding of my heart.
Apart from Headmistress Moonhart, I don’t recall a woman ever having joined me in my hut. And Lyra is already making herself at home, pulling one knee into her chest and blowing softly on her steaming tea as she holds the cup in both hands. Always in such a hurry . . .
“Careful,” I say, feeling oddly protective of her. “It’s hot.”
One of her brows arches in the corner. “I don’t mind some heat.”
Oh, goddess.
I tear my eyes away and will myself not to imagine what’s under that sweater—if anything at all. Her dress almost killed me tonight, but I think the sweater and bare legs might be even more dangerous.
Not good.
“So,” Lyra says as I stare at a point on the kitchen wall, “tell me about you, Cairn Axton.”
She says my name slowly, drawing it out intentionally. I flex my jaw and take a slow breath, trying to keep my horns on straight.
“Me? There’s not much to tell.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “What do you want to know?”
“How’d you end up here?” In my periphery, she gestures around my hut with one hand. “Did you always want to be a groundskeeper?”
A gruff laugh slips out of me. “No.”
I didn’t know what I wanted, exactly. But like most things in life, the job presented itself to me unexpectedly—and right when I needed it.
After taking a sip of tea, I ask Lyra, “And you? Why are you here?”
“Well,” she says, “there was this rainstorm, and I had to run for cover, and—”
I tip my head and cast her an unimpressed look, and she cracks a smile.
“At Coven Crest?” she asks.
I nod.
Now the playful smile slips from her lips. She sets her teacup on the table and looks down into her tea, the steam curling up around her pretty freckled cheeks.
“My mom attended Coven Crest,” she says softly.
“I don’t know her, really—she left when I was little—but I know she was a powerful fire witch, and I want to be one too.
” Her shoulders, drowning in my sweater, rise and fall with a shrug.
“So, here I am. Not sure it’s done me much good though.
” Her crimson eyes flick to mine, but the smile she attempts doesn’t quite reach them.
My heart squeezes. Perhaps for the first time, Lyra is letting me see something that resides somewhere deep. She’s being vulnerable. And it makes me hurt for her.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
Lyra blinks. “For what?”
“Your mother . . .” I clear my throat. “A parent shouldn’t abandon their children.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugs again, like she’s trying to let it roll off her shoulders, but I can see the weight that hangs there, even if she tries to disguise it.
“It was a long time ago. And I have Papa. Though I know I wasn’t easy on him coming up.
” A bit of a sparkle returns to her eyes.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I was a terror. Still am.”
She laughs, and the sound makes me smile.
“That,” I say softly, “I can confirm.”
“Oh, please. I’ve been mostly on time, I haven’t set anything on fire—”
“Yet,” I cut in, setting my teacup down on the table.
“—and most of all, I put up with you.”
My eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Lyra says, pushing to her feet, “that you can be insufferable at times. Grumpy, cold, prickly . . .”
I’d argue with her, tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but she’s stepping toward me on bare feet, and my throat squeezes closed as she slips her legs around my hips and sinks onto my lap, arms coming up to drape around my neck.
Her face is so close now, I can see the different shades of red in her crimson eyes, can see the firelight dancing in her midnight pupils.
“Lyra—” I start.
She puts one hand on my cheek and leans her forehead against mine. Her skin is hot to the touch. I catch my breath.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You don’t have to pretend like you don’t want this.” Her hand drifts down my cheek and neck to rest on my chest, right over my heart. I know she can feel how fast it’s beating. “Whatever you say, I know you want me too.”
Her eyes burn into mine. No matter what words my mouth forms, my body doesn’t lie, and it’s already reacting to her.
“You know why I can’t,” I whisper, trying to turn my face away from hers. But she catches my cheek in her hand and forces me to look at her.
“I know why you won’t,” she corrects. “But we’re alone. No one has to know.” Her gaze slips down to my mouth, and her thumb brushes delicately over my lips, making my cock twitch. “It’ll be our little secret.”
“If someone finds out—”
“I won’t let that happen,” she says. Her eyes flash with determination.
“I know what that would mean for you. I know what’s on the line.
” She pushes her fingers through my beard, then leans in again, so close I can feel her breath on my lips.
“But I want you so bad. Please, Cairn. I’ll beg if I have to. I’ll do whatever you want.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to ground myself, but no matter what I do, I can’t stop my cock from hardening. She’s sitting right on it, and it strains to reach her through my soft trousers.
“I’m too old for you,” I whisper, eyes still closed. I’m trying to remember all the reasons why I shouldn’t do this, but they flash by like streaks of lightning, gone before I can pinpoint their exact location.
Lyra lets out a laugh. “According to who?”
“Society,” I grumble.
She leans in closer, breath tickling my ear. “Fuck society.”
Her sharp words send a bolt of surprise through me, followed closely by desire.
I keep waiting for her to kiss me, to make this decision easy, but she doesn’t. And when I finally open my eyes, she’s staring right at me, watching, waiting.
This is my choice to make; she’s already made hers.
I see myself reflected in her firelit eyes, and I see how scared I am: scared of losing my job, scared of doing something I shouldn’t, scared of what others might think, scared of letting myself think I can have this—have her.
Fuck society, I think. I’ve never liked it anyway, so why let it control me? Why let it steal from me the joy and pleasure that’s currently seated in my lap, staring at me with hungry eyes and a pouty mouth?
“Fuck society,” I whisper. And I think I’ve made my choice.
Lyra doesn’t even have the chance to smile before I grip the back of her head in my hand and crush her mouth to mine.