Chapter 9 #2
"I'm fine." The words slurred. "Just cold. Give me a minute."
She wasn't fine. He could see it in the tremors running through her, the way her eyes weren't quite focusing. The hours of cold, the wet clothes, whatever that sound had done to her magic. It had all compounded while they'd sat in hostile silence on opposite sides of the cave.
He'd been fine. Agitated, unnaturally cold in a way that made no sense for a wolf, but fine. The sound had affected him differently, riling his wolf instead of draining him. She was an air witch. Whatever that pulse was, it had worked against her element, and now she was paying the price.
"The witches' cabin is closer than the festival." He was already moving toward her, catching her arm when she stumbled. "Fifteen minutes through the woods. Can you walk?"
"I said I'm fine. I can take care of myself." But her legs buckled when she tried to take a step, and he caught her before she hit the ground.
"I've got you." He pulled her arm over his shoulders, wrapped his arm around her waist. "Just keep moving."
They made it maybe a hundred feet before he gave up on letting her walk. She was stumbling every few steps, her weight sagging against him, her responses getting slower. He stopped, shifted his grip, and lifted her into his arms.
"Put me down." The protest had no heat behind it.
"When we get to the cabin."
She didn't argue again. Her head dropped against his shoulder, her body curling against him, and he told himself the tight feeling in his throat was just exertion.
The path through the woods was dark now, the last light fading behind the clouds.
He navigated by instinct and pack bonds, his wolf senses compensating for the lack of visibility.
Halfway to the cabin, his wolf shifted.
This wasn’t the restless agitation from earlier, or the hunger that had pressed against his control in the cave.
This was something different. Deeper. A flicker of recognition that he hadn't felt since before Cara, since before he'd locked down every instinct that might lead him to wanting someone again.
He froze on the path, his heart hammering, waiting for the feeling to intensify. For the full mate-bond recognition he'd heard other wolves describe, the certainty that crashed through you like a wave and rewrote everything you thought you knew about yourself.
It didn't come. The flicker faded, his wolf going silent again, and he was left standing in the dark with Willow's weight in his arms and no idea what had just happened.
He started walking again. The trees thinned ahead, and through the fog he could make out the shape of the witches' cabin. Lights glowed in the windows, warm and golden against the grey.
Ryker carried her up the porch steps and through the door, into the warmth of the witches' cabin. The main room was empty, the other sanctuary witches probably still at the festival grounds. He set Willow on the worn sofa and grabbed a blanket from the back, wrapping it around her shoulders.
She was still trembling. Her lips still blue. The blanket wasn't going to be enough.
He looked around the small cabin, trying to think. Fireplace, but it would take too long to build up enough heat. Kitchen, maybe hot water, towels. He started toward it when her voice stopped him.
"Bath house." The words came out slurred, her teeth chattering. "Hot springs. Out back."
He stared at her for a second before the obvious answer clicked into place.
The witches' cabin sat on a natural hot spring—he'd forgotten.
The pack had built a small bath house over it years ago, back when this had been a guest cottage.
Natural mineral water, constantly warm. Exactly what she needed.
"Can you walk?"
She tried to stand and her legs buckled. He caught her before she hit the floor.
"Guess not." He lifted her again, carried her through the back door and across the short path to the bath house.
Steam rose from the wooden structure, fogging the windows.
Inside, the air was thick and warm, smelling of minerals and cedar.
A stone-lined pool took up most of the space, water dark and still, heat radiating off the surface.
He set her on the wooden bench beside the pool. Her fingers fumbled at her jacket, clumsy and uncoordinated, and she made a frustrated sound.
"I can't—my hands won't—"
"I've got it."
The words came out before he could think them through. Then he was kneeling in front of her, his fingers working the zipper of her soaked jacket, and every rational thought left his head.
He peeled the jacket off her shoulders. Her sweater underneath was plastered to her skin, heavy with water.
He pulled it over her head, trying not to look, failing completely.
A simple white bra, transparent now from the wet, her nipples visible through the thin fabric.
He kept his eyes on his hands. On the practical task.
On anything except the soft curves inches from his face.
Her jeans were worse. He had to work the wet denim down her hips, his knuckles dragging against her thighs, the soft skin of her stomach, the edge of her underwear.
White cotton, simple, nothing designed to seduce.
It didn't matter. His body responded like she was wearing black lace and whispering his name.
He could scent her now. Not just lavender and honey, but the rich musky undertone of the woman that made him want to bury his face between her thighs and taste what he was scenting.
Fuck.
She sat on the bench in her bra and panties, shaking, her skin pale and covered in goosebumps. While he was harder than he'd ever been in his life. Definitely an asshole.
"Water's going to feel hot." He kept his voice flat, controlled. "I'm going to lower you in slow. Don't want to shock your system."
She nodded, too cold to argue. He lifted her again, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and carried her to the edge of the pool. The stone steps descended into the water gradually. He walked down them, still holding her, letting the heat reach her feet first.
She gasped at the contact, her body jerking against his chest.
"Easy." He went slower, his voice wrecked. The water climbed to her calves, her thighs. She was pressed against him, her nearly bare body slick with steam, and his resistance was crumbling with every step. "Almost there."
When the water reached her waist, he lowered her onto the submerged stone ledge, keeping one hand on her shoulder to steady her. Her head fell back against the pool's edge, her eyes closing, a sound escaping her throat that was somewhere between relief and pleasure.
He needed to get out of this water. He needed to put distance between them before he did something stupid.
"Stay here." His voice came out rough. "I'll get towels. Dry clothes."
Her hand caught his wrist before he could move. Her eyes opened, brown and hazy.
"Ryker." Just his name. Nothing else.
He pulled away and climbed out of the pool, his wet jeans clinging to him, his body screaming at him to go back. To finish what they'd started in the cave. To stop fighting the pull that had been dragging them together since the moment she'd walked onto this island.
He found towels in a cabinet by the door. Grabbed a robe hanging from a hook. Set them on the bench where she could reach them. And then he stood there, like an idiot, water dripping onto the wooden floor, as he watched steam rise from her bare shoulders.
He clung to his resistance by the proverbial thread as it unraveled with every passing second.
Whatever came next, he wasn't sure he could stop it.
Because he didn’t want to.