Chapter 19
Trewoofe
As his eyes opened, a myriad of sensations flooded Trewoofe all at once: the smell of Wisp fire, the rough snores of the familiar, the weight of Avice nestled in his arms, a dull and constant ache on his torso, and the throbbing desire of his erection pressed into the small of her back.
Trewoofe froze. Everything else fell away except for that point of contact.
Only the thin cloth he wore around his hips, and Avice’s blood-stain dress, separated him from her.
He squashed down his desire to rut. Knucker males always worked hard to court and impress their females before anything physical happened between them.
He could hardly believe his luck. He had nearly died, and in less than a day, he had ended up in the place he wanted to be the most – with Avice. Perhaps he had died and passed through the Shimmering Veil to paradise.
Trewoofe drank in every part of her sleeping form. Her midnight hair tangled like briars, black eyelashes stark against her pale skin, his gifted necklace dipped into her cleavage. His gaze swept down and caught on the sight of her arm sticking out awkwardly from the blankets.
Oh, little witch.
With all that had happened yesterday, Trewoofe had neglected what Avice had gone through to save him.
Her own bandages were stained dull red, mingled with the silver shimmer of his own blood.
She had not even blanched as she had cut herself along the edge of his fangs.
The thought of her wilfully injuring herself on his behalf made his gut twist.
Bile rose in his throat, and he caught it in his mouth.
He remembered the way she shoved him away from vomiting on her cloak.
He sat up abruptly, accidentally thudding Avice’s head against the pallet, reaching for the copper cauldron abandoned beside the pallet.
He grabbed it with both hands and retched, staring at what he vomited up.
No, no, no.
The black sludge was back. Not wanting to make a mess, he placed the cauldron carefully by the bedside. The vomiting sent pain radiating through him like a thousand thorns stabbing his skin all at once. He doubled over, clutching his middle, and let out a whimper.
Trewoofe vaguely registered a rustle behind him, before Avice’s hand landed on his exposed shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. He pressed his cheek to her knuckles before looking back at her.
She was delightfully rumpled, and her cheeks flushed from the warmth of their bodies pressed together.
His heart caught in his throat before he could get his words out.
Part of her dress had slipped down, exposing the sweep of her neck to the top of her shoulder.
He noticed little flecks of ink embedded in her skin, starting at her collar bone and curling, unseen, down her back.
“Good morning, Lord,” she said, eyes still bleary. “Have you been sick again?”
Trewoofe turned from her and cast his face down to his lap. “Yes, in the cauldron.” He flushed with shame. “I did not want to make a mess.”
Avice removed her hand and gave a strangled chuckle. “I think we are past ‘not making a mess’.”
He straightened and swept his gaze across the room.
It looked as if a swarm of Pillywiggins had crashed through, deliberately sewing mischief in their wake.
Streaks of blood – mainly his, but some of Avice’s – were everywhere, and thousands of tiny leaves littered the floor.
A chair was upended and broken, and a beam of the roof had cracked where he had tried to wrench his horns free.
“Little witch.” He gulped. “Forgive me for the mess I have made, please.”
When she did not answer, Trewoofe shifted himself around, clutching his middle with a grimace.
She sat with her head in her hands, legs out of the pallet, and hind paws bare.
He frowned at that, as he knew she had come to the pallet with them covered.
He wriggled his own paws beneath the blankets and bristled.
Tugging off the blankets, he cringed inwardly at what looked to be her ripped and stained stockings on him, coming only a quarter way up his calves.
“Avice,” he hissed, finally catching her attention.
She snapped up. “What is it? Are you alright, Lord?”
“What are on my paws?”
She smirked. “Feet.”
He prickled. “What?”
“Feet, when you are in…” – she gestured to him – “this body, you should call them feet.”
Trewoofe huffed. “Well then, what are on my feet?”
She blinked at him. “My stockings,” she stated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why?”
“You kept putting your toes on me last night, and they were like ice,” Avice explained. “So, I took them off me and put them onto you.”
Trewoofe wriggled his toes, and a claw poked through. “I do not like them. I feel like they are choking my skin.”
Avice grumbled. “Lord, I needed to sleep, and you kept waking me with how cold they were. Besides, you cannot run around with nothing on your feet.” Her gaze ran up his long body; she flushed and looked away. “…And without a stitch of clothing.”
Trewoofe prickled at that, nausea seeped through him and a headache gnawed behind his eyes. “Why?”
“Because…” Avice paused for a moment. “I said so. This is my cottage, and you are my patient. You will do as you are told while I am looking after you.”
A part of him – deep under the pain, the queasiness, and the disgust at wearing stockings on his feet – curled with delight at her boldness.
She stared up at him, strands of midnight hair cutting across her narrowed gaze, with a fiery determination to make him well.
It reminded him of when she climbed the hill with Hope cradled against her.
He adored Avice in every iteration he had known, but this one, this fierce version of her, was his favourite.
It sent a twitch of desire to his core that made him want to get on his knees for her.
“Of course, little witch, whatever your heart desires,” he replied with a wide grin.
She flustered at that, her cheeks turning red. Just when he thought he had made her happy again, his stomach turned, and he threw himself forward to wretch into the cauldron once more.