Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48193 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
I pat my hands on the skirt of my dress and steady myself.
“I was thinking of making some tea and a little food before I turn in for the night.” Does my voice seem as loud to him as it does to me? It can’t really be helped—the rain still roars on the roof—but suddenly I have no idea what the right volume is, or whether I’m using it. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but would you like to sit in the kitchen while I do that?”
He rolls his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “I would be happy to help.”
I wave this off. “That isn’t necessary. Come sit and keep me company.” The moment the words leave me I question them. How very…bossy of me. Clearing my throat, I shake off the unsettled nerves and stop questioning myself. “If you’d like,” I add to soften my demeanor. Our eyes catch then, and my heart does the same little torturous flip. Ripping my gaze from his I lead the way.
The wolf shifter moves his pack to the door, where it won’t be underfoot, and follows me into the kitchen. I put the kettle over the fire and chop up the potato. Then I move on to some vegetables I grew the day before last and tip them into a pot with beans and broth and some meat I had under a preservation spell. On a stormy night like tonight the kitchen witch in me demands a hearty soup. Smugly I wonder if the smell of the soup will tempt him to eat. He’s already denied me twice and a third time won’t do.
After all I feel a desire to feed him. To offer him warmth and comfort. My mind drifts and I quickly shut down the thoughts that come.
The shifter accepts a seat at the kitchen table and a cup of tea, sipping it slowly while I move around the kitchen. His large hand around the delicate porcelain saucer forces my lips to pull into a smirk. I have to make an effort to keep my hands steady. I am not embarrassed about cooking—the moons know I have been the only one to cook for myself for the last three years—but I can feel his eyes on me. As the spices are added I ask them to nourish our bodies. I speak more to the soup itself, in my head, than I do to the company I currently keep.
I don’t know how to start a conversation. Every time my lips part, my breath seems to leave. As if it rushed out of me and left the words themselves behind. I saw how his eyes went wide when he saw me before. I can feel the heat in his glances. He finds me interesting, and I like the way he looks at me. I more than like it.
The soup bubbles in the pot, and I lean over it, the strangest feeling in my chest.
Is it hope?
Is it something more?
Should I feel this way, when I am meant to be alone?
The questions pile up as I ladle out two bountiful bowls of soup.
The storm is the loudest part of the meal. The soldier tries to ask a few questions about the cottage and the storm, and I tell him that I have lived here nearly all my life, and I have never seen a storm this strong come through. I can barely look at him while we speak. What has come over me?
Otherwise, we focus on eating the stew by candlelight. My smile grows with the small groan of satisfaction as he eats. An urge to tease him for denying his hunger at first threatens to spill from my lips. But I keep them shut, merely admiring the roughness of his hands as he eats.
When the stew is gone and we’ve shared a small loaf of buttered bread to wipe the bowls of every drop, I show him to the small bathing room in one corner of the cottage. It only takes a wave of my hand to fill the bathing tub with hot water. I don’t miss the way his shoulders straighten as I wave my hand. How he pays attention to my every movement.
He’s intrigued and I love that. I, too, find myself intrigued.
He accepts a small stack of towels and washcloths with an expression of mild surprise on his face, then shuts himself in. I stand with my back to the closed door, hand on my racing heart, wondering what he looks like in the nude. The moment I catch myself wondering I roll my eyes at myself.
I do not listen outside the door. Even if I wanted to, I could not hear sloshing water in the tub over the storm. He is a temporary guest, of extreme sexual attraction, but a guest nonetheless.