Page 15 of Can't Get No Satyrfaction

She shifted in his arms, and his pulse jumped.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck.

He grunted, fighting the urge to look at her face. To see if her eyes held the same warmth as her voice. Instead, he tried to focus on the path ahead, to ignore how perfectly she fit against him. But when she tilted her head back, he couldn’t resist looking down.

She smiled up at him, blue eyes wide and bright despite the exhaustion etched across her face. “You’re not as grumpy as you want everyone to think, are you?”

Before he could deflect the question, her head dropped against his shoulder, and the simple gesture knocked the air from his lungs. Her hair brushed his chin, soft as silk, her breath warm against his chest.

His grip tightened. When was the last time someone had trusted him like this? Had dared to lean into him instead of away?

No. He couldn’t let her slip past his defenses. Couldn’t let her gentle teasing and unguarded trust crack the walls he’d spent decades building. And yet…

Her fingers curled against his chest, and something inside him shifted. Like roots breaking through stone, her presence worked its way into spaces he thought he’d sealed forever.

He clenched his jaw, fighting a rush of satisfaction at how naturally she fit in his arms. At how she’d chosen to rest against him despite what he was. Despite his horns and hooves and sharp edges.

Dangerous thoughts. He forced his gaze ahead, pretending he couldn’t feel her warmth seeping into his skin. Pretending his heart hadn’t started beating in time with hers.

He reached a huge pine and the branches pulled aside to let him pass into the small open clearing behind it. Late afternoon sunlight painted patterns across the rough-hewn structure he’d built seasons ago—little more than a primitive lean-to, although sturdy enough. Moss draped the weathered wood like a living blanket, nature slowly reclaiming the structure.

The rich, loamy scent of earth filled his lungs as he ducked inside. Careful not to jostle her, he lowered her onto the thick bed of moss along the back of the shelter. A small sound escaped her throat—pain flickering across her features—and his frown deepened, something protective and unwanted stirring in his chest.

Bront’s three heads peered through the entrance, ears perked with concern. The sight only heightened his unease. Even his most faithful companion had fallen under her spell.

Despite her obvious discomfort, she looked around curiously, then smiled up at him.

“Compared to a burrow, I would say this is a five star accommodation.”

Even though she was clearly teasing, watching her take in the sparse interior through those bright eyes made him acutely aware of its shortcomings. It was intended for shelter, not for comfort.

“Not all of us need fancy trappings,” he growled, but his hands were already moving. Green energy thrummed through his fingertips as he touched the wall beside her. Vines responded instantly, weaving themselves into a natural cushion behind her back.

“Oh!” Her delighted gasp threatened to work its way through his defenses.

He pressed his palm to the ground, coaxing softer moss to spread beneath her swollen ankles. Fragrant herbs sprouted between the green shoots—plants he used for treating injuries—and their sweet scent filled the small space.

“That’s amazing,” she breathed, reaching out to stroke a vine that had curled near her shoulder. “How did you?—”

“It’s nothing.”

He turned away from her awed expression, busying himself with encouraging more plants to strengthen the shelter’s walls. Delicate white flowers bloomed along the vines, their petals catching what little sunlight filtered through the remaining cracks. He hadn’t meant to add those—they served no practical purpose—but her murmured appreciation made his chest tighten.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he muttered, though the words lacked bite. “This isn’t a hotel.”

“You could have fooled me.” Her smile was audible in her voice. “Five stars for the magical plant manipulation alone.”

His tail flicked in irritation—at her teasing, at himself for showing off, at the warmth spreading through him at her praise.

That’s not why we’re here, he reminded himself, kneeling down next to her, trying to focus solely on her injured ankles. He gently removed her boots, and then her socks. Both ankles were swollen and bruised, but still ridiculously small compared to his big hands. His fingers brushed her skin as he examined the bruising, impossibly soft.

“I’ll apply a healing oil and some additional herbs, but it will need binding,” he said roughly. He looked around the shelter, even though he already knew there was nothing suitable, then sighed. “Give me your shirt. I’ll cut a strip off to use for a bandage.”

Her eyes widened, the dim light filtering through the vine-covered walls turning them dark and mysterious. He half-expected her to object, but she simply pulled it off over her head and handed it to him. He snatched the garment from her outstretched hand, jerking his gaze away from creamy skin and delicate curves, focusing instead on cutting even strips from the bottom of her shirt.

“Here.” He thrust the shortened garment back at her without looking. The rustle of fabric as she slipped it back on made his ears twitch. When he finally glanced up, the shortened hem revealed even more of her stomach. Even though the rest of her was mostly covered, the memory of what lay beneath the thin cloth was now permanently seared into his mind. He was in so much trouble.

CHAPTER 8

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