BODY HEAT
The cottage was certainly dry, but I couldn’t say it was very warm.
Nivelle had been away for weeks, leaving the place unattended, and a chill had set in without the constant movement or fires in the hearth.
Even with it being mid-spring, the climate on the isles didn’t seem like it got warm enough to go without at least a small fire every day.
The usual gloom over Neveshir had darkened even further with the ensuing storm, leaving the cottage doused in shadows.
A few wights sprung to their feet when we entered.
Some scampered over to Nivelle, brushing up against her ankles before slinking back into the recesses of the main room.
Others climbed to perch on the wood rafters above, keen to keep a close watch on the stranger she’d brought home.
“You can leave your weapons on the table in the kitchen,” Nivelle said before she disappeared into the room on the right.
I ignored her command and followed her, stopping and leaning against the doorframe of what looked to be her bedchamber.
Her bed was centered directly across from the door. On the wall to its right was a rounded, curtainless window from which a flash of lightning lit the room. To the left, a small hearth and mantel took up most of the wall, decorated with a garland of dried flowers. A leather armchair sat nearby.
Nivelle went straight to the hearth and laid a few logs on the ashes. After performing some sort of brief spell, the timber sparked, and a gentle flame consumed it. She stood, turning to meet my stare.
“My sheath and scabbard need to dry out before morning,” I said as I crossed the threshold. “I’ll leave them by the fire, if you don’t mind.”
“All right,” she said, stepping around me. “I’ll find us something to eat.”
I unstrapped both holsters and propped them near the fire, then crouched before it, stoking the flames with the metal poker.
The warmth was nice, but I was in no hurry to dry off.
Being water-logged from training in the rain never bothered me.
In fact, the rain and the chill that came with it was practically instilled in my blood, thanks to my heritage.
I could certainly endure soggy clothes and boots until we returned to Calledan.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to complain, now that it seemed like I was making some sort of progress with Nivelle.
The front door opened, followed by the sound of tiny paws scampering across the wood floor.
Thunder filled the interim moments until a clatter sounded from the porch.
I leaned over to get a better view out the bedroom door and found Nivelle stumbling back inside, shooing the wights away from her feet and hissing something under her breath.
She set a small basket on the counter, then stood on her tiptoes to reach a plate above the kitchen sink.
After arranging a few items that she pulled from the basket, she unrolled something from a cloth, whispering as she placed it in the center of the plate.
I couldn’t help but grin at seeing her doing something so normal as preparing food. Just before she turned around, I quickly faced the fire again, poking at it with the rod, too enthusiastically.
She re-entered the room and knelt to set the plate of green apples, figs, and a loaf of dark bread in front of the fire.
“It’s all I have at the moment,” she said as I examined the food.
“Fresh bread?” I raised a suspicious brow.
“A simple spell keeps it fresh for quite some time. Another spell re-heats it.” She tucked her feet underneath her and tore into the loaf, releasing steam into the air.
“That’s handy,” I said, taking the piece she offered me, along with an apple. “Not much to hunt here, is there?”
“Some witches keep small livestock, but they don’t mature like they would in your realm—nothing to feed them with. That’s why most of us keep gardens.”
“Did you grow the apples?”
“Yes, and the figs.”
“In the garden where I saw you turn flowers to crispy husks?”
She lifted her eyes to me. “Does that bother you?”
“That depends. Are the apples poisoned?”
Her lips spread into a grin that had me deciding I wouldn’t even care if the fruit was poisoned. I’d devour it all just to see that smile again and again.
“Poison is the amusement of a lesser witch. I have far more creative ways to make my enemies miserable.” She lifted a fig and turned it in her fingertips. “But you are not my enemy.”
She sank her teeth into the fig’s flesh, tempting me to do the same just by the way she was looking at me. Holding her stare, I bit into the apple, and instead of the tartness I’d expected, a burst of sugar coated my tongue. It was the sweetest apple I’d ever tasted.
“It’s delicious,” I said, going back for a second bite.
Her grin returned. “I never said they weren’t enchanted.”
She licked her fingers, and I watched every fucking move.
I knew a tease when I saw it.
Whatever she was doing, she was doing it on purpose now. Part of me itched to join the game she was playing, but the other half urged me to err on the side of caution. This could very well be one of those moments where I’d get my hopes up only to watch her drift away again.
Still, that ache returned, making it difficult to continue sitting in the position I was in with my clothes still clinging to every inch of me.
We ate, trading looks back and forth, that sweet tension building between us again like it had earlier.
When the plate was cleaned, I reached into my pocket in space and brought forth a small, silver flask.
In it, was a never-ending supply of my favorite whiskey—an enchantment of my own that I’d learned at an embarrassingly young age.
The lid was well worn, its grooves nearly buffed smooth from centuries of use.
My finger found the edge and unscrewed it, releasing a potent smell of caramel, smoky oak, and grain.
“What is that?” Nivelle asked, breaking our eye contact to stare at the flask.
“A different kind of poison,” I said, grinning as I tipped the container against my lips.
A small, breathy noise, like a throaty laugh, broke free from her, and I nearly choked at the sound of it. What in the gods’ names was happening? Smiles, laughs, finger licking? Had I stepped into some sort of spell, or was this actually the reality I was living in?
If this was indeed a spell, fuck it. Fuck it all. I’d embrace it.
I cleared my throat and held the flask out toward her. “It truly is a form of poison, though—if you drink enough of it.”
She took it, sniffing the contents first. “More of that liquid you all like to drink in the fae realm?”
“Better.” I gestured for her to try it.
She scrunched her nose as she sipped, anticipating the worst, but one swallow led to another, and her brows lifted in surprise.
“Easy there, killer,” I said, reaching for the container. “It’s meant to be savored.”
Her cheeks flushed pink as she handed it over. “I like it.”
“Didn’t take you for a whiskey drinker, but I’m glad you are.”
“Whiskey . . .” She weighed the word on her tongue.
“I’ll get some for you when we get back to The Keep.
” I took another swig, then passed it back to her.
“I will say, if we drink too much more of that, porting is going to be a very unpleasant experience, and I won’t be able to guarantee a safe landing.
It tends to throw off one’s balance and depth perception. ”
This time, she took a slow, steady drink, eyeing me with that same, almost playful look in her eye. As if she was perfectly okay with us not being able to port.
Did she want to . . . stay for the night?
Judging by the now-dark sky outside the window, it was probably getting late. And with everything that had just transpired—the conversation, the intense eye contact, the progress I’d been longing for—I wasn’t about to cut any of that short.
Perhaps staying was the best option.
I crooked a finger for the flask once more. Gulping down a generous amount, I said, “We can stay for the night, if that’s what you want.”
Her eyes narrowed on me as she silently calculated her response.
This was normally where the wall would go back up between us. Brick by brick, she would ice me out, and I would end up right back where I started—pissed off and painfully aroused.
I held my breath, waiting for what felt like minutes as she decided whether or not she wanted to take a different route than all the other times before.
A clap of thunder rattled the cottage, snapping her out of her internal debate, and slowly . . .
She pushed to her feet.
No. No. Fuck.
When she stood and walked off into the other room, my heart sank, and the feeling of defeat—a feeling I absolutely despised—crept over me like a suffocating shadow.
What went wrong? Nothing. Absolutely fucking noth—
I froze mid-thought when she reappeared in the doorway, holding a bundle of folded fabric in her arms.
“You can bed down here.” She flicked her eyes to the rug beneath us.
I tilted my head, thoughts spiraling at the complete mind-fuck this was turning into.
But she was here . . . with a blanket in her arms . . .
She hadn’t shut me out after all.
I could have sworn there was a bit of reluctance in her expression as she glanced down at the rug again, but she didn’t suggest an alternate sleeping option for me. If she wanted me to share her bed, she sure as hell wasn’t going to say it outright, that much was clear.
The rug would do just fine. I certainly wouldn’t be making myself at home in the chair that looked like it was fit for a youngling. And with everything that was running through my mind, I probably wouldn’t get much sleep to begin with. I waited a moment before saying, “Perfect.”
She shifted on her feet, and the movement had me convinced she was waiting for me to beg permission to join her. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, nor would I chance that being the thing that pushed her over the edge, and risk her completely rescinding the offer to stay.