Page 67 of A Witch and Her Minotaur
I realize, perhaps too late, what a mess I’ve made of her. But as she tosses her hair and looks back at me, lips pulled into a catlike smile, I get the feeling she doesn’t mind at all. In fact, I think she’s pleased. And now she has an excuse to get me into a hot bath with her again.
Not that I’m complaining. And the rain’s still falling, droning against the thatched roof, so we should still have time before anyone even considers where we are or what we’re doing.
I grab my tunic off the floor and use it to wipe Lyra clean—or as clean as I can get herwith such a small amount of fabric. When I’m done, she pushes onto her knees and turns to face me, her arms coming up to loop around my neck, a softness to her body now as she droops against me. I expect her to kiss me, but instead, she nuzzles her face into the side of my neck, right up under my chin.
Against my chest, I can feel her heart beating. My arms wrap around her, pulling her snug against my body, and I hold her like that until my heartbeat starts to meld with hers, until I can no longer determine where mine starts and her ends.
And deep in my chest, under my ribs, there’s a dull ache. And I know what this ache means.
It means I’m hers now, means my string is wrapped around her firelit finger. And it means everything is going to get a lot harder from here forward. Because for me, there’s no going back. My peaceful life here is no longer.
Now it’s all Lyra.
Chapter 32
Lyra
I’M DEFINITELY SORE NOW, TO the point where after taking another bath with Cairn, I have to settle myself onto the couch delicately, wincing a bit in the process.
Four fingers—that’s all it took to make me ache like this. Yet I still can’t deny I want to feel more, want to feel all of him. I realize, though, that I’m not yet ready, and I’m grateful to Cairn for taking his time with me, for making sure when hedoesfinally fuck me, it’ll be good for both of us.
He’s still in the bedroom, getting dressed, so I’m alone for a moment, and I take this chance to look around his sitting room, noticing and appreciating all his little knickknacks. I’ve been in here multiple times, but usually not alone, and whenever Cairn is around, my gaze is always on him, drawn to him whether I mean for it to be or not.
On the mantel above the fire are little wooden statuettes, a few hunks of crystal quartz, an amethyst the sizeof my fist, and bundles of herbs I don’t know the names of. The walls hold more herbs, these tied upside down, their flowers and blooms still vibrant with color. I recognize the lavender and white sage, but again, many of the others are unfamiliar to me.
I should’ve paid more attention in Botany 101...
My gaze traces across Cairn’s armchair, and a little smile pulls on my mouth when I remember him sitting there with a steaming dandelion latte—which soundssogood right now. Maybe I’ll ask him to make me one, and I can enjoy it before the rain stops and we have to head back outside and act like we didn’t do what we just did.
Cheeks tingling at the memory, I glance down at the side table standing next to the couch. And lying atop it is an envelope and a letter. My eyes track quickly across the words scrawled onto the paper. I don’t mean to pry—that’s not my intention—but with each word I read, my chest squeezes a little tighter.
The Columbine Conservatory? Isn’t that on the other side of Wysteria?
I recall visiting it once, with all its beautiful plants and abundant orchards. But that was a long time ago. And it’s also many miles from here.
Is he . . . leaving?
The possible implication hits me hard.
All at once, I’m struggling to breathe. My chest feels like it’s being twisted and wrung like a wet rag, and I reach up to grip my sweater with trembling fingers.
Breathe, Lyra, I tell myself.Focus on something. What can you see?
I tear my eyes away from the letter and stare at the bundle of lavender on the wall.
What can you hear?
The rain patters on the thatched roof, the fire crackles gently, and in the back bedroom, the floor creaks beneath Cairn’s weight as he moves about.
What can you smell?
Smoke. Earth. Rain. That comforting mix of smells that’s distinctlyhim.
Slowly, the tightness in my chest starts to abate, the racing of my heart slowing to a painful thrum.
This isn’t like that, I remind myself.Not like when she left.
Ever since my mother abandoned me and Papa, I’ve had these moments. They don’t happen often, and when they do, I can usually calm myself quickly. When I was young, they used to terrify me—and Papa. But together, we learned how to handle them, how to ease me back from the panic that sometimes grips my chest and makes my vision go shadowy at the edges.
