If only she knew who I really was.I blinked and looked around. It had to be midday, with an island breeze sweeping through the windows. Outside, birds chirped and coconut fronds brushed against each other. Ocean waves rolled in the distance.
I was getting used to this peaceful atmosphere.
I probably shouldn’t.
A woman’s voice hummed and the witch came inside, carrying a basket of herbs. I watched as she worked, laying out dried herbs on the counter, her head always turned–it seemed–to look at anything but what she actually did with her hands. Her long black hair fell behind her, almost reaching her bottom. She was petite, but not lacking feminine qualities.
Ginger.The way she tended to me was gentle, and each time I woke up to see her face, I knew I was safe. I could rest.
Why won’t she tell me her name?And why did it nag at me that after all this time she still kept it to herself?
She pulled apart some dried lavender when her face turned slightly. “Are you awake?” she asked, but she wasn’t exactly looking at me.
I tried to sit up, but she was immediately at my side. “Gently. I need to rebandage this.”
“I need to walk,” I said, and she nodded.
“You will. Just let me take care of this first.” And then she was there, removing the bandage and moving close to me. Much too close.
“It’s fine,” I said, though when I dared to look at it, my fingers twitched. The wound looked bad. The entire area was purple and green around the thick red line. It was mottled-looking, with the skin looking stretched and worn.
And though it hurt, I suddenly became way too aware of the woman’s touch.
“It’s not fine,” she said. “Relax.”
But I couldn’t relax, not when she pressed her hand on my chest, forcing me to lie back down. I tensed as she leaned in, her fingers brushing my skin as she worked, her hair touching my bare shoulder.
I grit my teeth… not because of the pain, but because I could feel the warmth of her breath on my collarbone. She smelled like vanilla and plumerias, a scent both refreshing and warm.
A scent I should not be thinking about.
“You’re too tense,” she said again, her fingers touching the wound as she cleaned up dry blood and placed her salve on it.
“Maybe because I have a woman fussing over me,” I said, and I meant it. I was not used to being cared for like this, to beingtouchedat all.
Much to my surprise, her expression softened and the corner of her lip turned up. “Maybe if the huntsman wasn’t so reckless, he wouldn’t need fussing over.”
At this, I smirked. “Careful, Ginger. You’re starting to sound like you care.”
With those words, crimson colored her cheeks. “I don’t–” she started to say, then shook her head, placed a fresh bandage on my wound, then left to clean her hands. But there was an undeniable tension in the air, one that filled me with something I’d never felt before.
I took a little breath, hoping it would dispel whatever was there, but it wouldn’t go away, much to my chagrin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MALIA
This man was just another whaler, and I silently resented him for it. Perhaps when he saved my life, I thought he might be a good man after all. Perhaps there was someone, under all that muscle and brute strength, who had a heart.
But he was like the others. He lived off killing whales. He thrived off of it. As I prepared another clay bowl of warm water to wash his wounds, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the irony of the situation. A girl who loved the whales, saving a man who killed them.
I looked out to sea, said a silent prayer asking for patience, then approached Alaric. He sat at the edge of the couch, looking much better today than the past few days. His color had returned, and he was moving around a lot more. But his wounds still needed tending, and, while he said I didn’t need to do it, I wanted to.
Because the sooner he was better, the sooner he’d leave.
I bent down in front of him, gently taking the bandages off. I dabbed the wound on his forehead, gently. But silently, I felt flustered. He was so close,I could feel his warmth, a sensation I was not used to. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d ever been close to someone, or anyone.
Perhaps when I was a baby, my mother might have held me close. But, since my youth, I couldn’t recall any memories of hugging anyone, or feeling anyone’s warmth, a thought that disturbed me more than I expected.
