If I had my magick, I’d conjure myself a toilet. Hell, I’d create bathrooms inside every cabin as a sign of faith because no woman or kid, shifter or otherwise, deserves to pee on the ground.
With a resigned sigh, I tug at the ribbon around my neck to undo the cloak so it’s one less thing to deal with. I walk the couple paces until reaching Ryder and hand him the material. “Hold this please.”
He takes it after a considerable long stare that makes me wonder if he has hearing difficulties before returning his gaze to the moon above.
Using a tree as support, I piss out my dignity, thankful for Mom’s dress code—and thus the dress that made all this easier. One small miracle.
When I’m back beside Ryder, I find him glaring at my cloak. Enemy territory and all that, I guess. Wordlessly, he shoves it into my arms and turns deeper into the woods, the rope around my wrist pulling taut before I follow.
“Careful. The ground slopes.”
After a few more steps, it dips exactly where he said. Coupled with the obscurity and chill, the ground feels slippery, and when my foot makes an audible noise, his arm jerks behind to catch me.
I don’t take his assistance, but I smile to myself nonetheless. “Thanks.” If he’s playing nice, I will too.
He leads me to a small creek, the water bubbling quietly. It’s only about two feet wide and without an invitation, I drop to my knees and sink my hands into the icy water, sighing loudly and dramatically for no reason but to make a point.
“Is this where you bathe?” I eye his form and then the small stream.
“No.”
Without my magick, my palms have felt so unnaturally warm, but this small bit of water is therapeutic. Cooling. A hug from an old friend, except that friend shouldn’tbeold; it should be here, running through my veins still.
“Did you know,” I begin conversationally, “all witches have elemental powers. Mine’s water, which makes this feel fucking amazing. My mother and cousin’s is air—most of the coven’s is actually. We used to have a lot of fire power; air and fire count one another out and it’s how the coven was designed. My friend, Harlow, is the only remaining one of us whom still uses primarily fire magick.”
It’s all pointless information, but telling him humanizes myself, so he understands why stealing my magick was a dick move. If only the dislike I definitely feel wasn’t known weeks ago, when an unknown forced urged me to stalk him. Perhaps in my time here, I’ll figure out the answer to that as well.
“How did you suppress my magick?”
“A potion.”
“Yeah, duh. Where didyouget a potion?”
“A witch.”
Man of many words.“You know what I mean.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’ll last twenty-four hours. I had to.”
“So I don’t fight. If you tell me why I’m here, maybe I won’t.”
He rolls his jaw and stares in the direction of the camp. “I’d prefer to show you, but tomorrow. It’s late and there’s nothing more that can be done tonight. Let’s head back.”
After a final splash of water up my arms, I unwillingly trail behind him, thinking about the most recent conversation. Not what he said, but how he said it. It was almost apologetic that he admitted to the potion.
Ryder hasn’t been outwardly mean since we met. Nowhere close to friendly, but not cruel. He’s hiding something that’ll answer my questions. Hopefully afterwards, he becomes nicer.
Tomorrow, apparently.
“Why do you live in the woods?”
“Never had a reason to leave. Wolves do best amongst their own kind. Being around humans is annoying.”
Back at his cabin, he pushes open the door and steps aside for me to enter. He follows close enough the rope never reaches its end, and I reclaim the same chair as earlier. Ryder tosses the rope to the side, apparently not planning on re-tying me up, and heads for the fireplace. He grabs a long stick propped beside it to poke at the logs and adjust as needed.
The fire grows quickly and the cabin heats more until there’s the tiniest fraction of content running through me.
“Thank you.”
