Page 22 of A Witch and Her Minotaur
I’m so glad Juniper wasn’t in my pocket when I fell. She would’ve been squashed. She definitely made a good choice deciding to sleep in this morning.
“You’re hurt,” Cairn says.
Using one clean spot on my sweater, I wipe my eyes, then turn to look up at him.
And I find his dark eyes narrowed with concern, his lips pulled into a deep frown. He doesn’t avert his gaze from me, doesn’t smirk or laugh at how pitiful I am.
“It’s my wrist. I landed on it when I fell. But I’ll be fine.”
“You probably sprained it.” He reaches for it, but I pull it away.
“I’ll be okay.”
With a heavy sigh that only a minotaur is capable of, he pushes up and reaches down to take me by the elbow, tail swishing behind him. “Come on. I’ll wrap it for you.”
“I don’t—”
Ignoring my complaint, Cairn cups my elbow and helps me to my feet. But even once I’m on my feet, his hand remains there, warming me through my knit sweater. I meet his eyes. A moment passes as we hold each other’s gaze. Then he pulls his hand away.
“Let’s go.”
He grabs the wheelbarrow and starts back toward his hut. I glance over my shoulder and find a few of the lingering students watching me. But when they meet my glare, they turn quickly away, acting like they weren’t just blatantly staring at me.
Or maybe they were staring at him. At his broad shoulders and curling horns. At the nose hoop he wears, which glints when the autumn sunlight catches it.
I wouldn’t blame them. Sometimes I find myself staring at him too.
“Lyra,” he calls out to me, already halfway across the courtyard by now.
My name sounds warm even as he says it with a hint of irritation in his tone. And it finally gets my muddy boots moving, carrying me back toward his home at the edge of the woods.
Chapter 11
Cairn
I’M STILL NOT SURE IF I’ve made a bad choice. It feels like I’m treading dangerous water, knowing sea creatures are lurking just beneath my hooves. But for some idiotic reason, I refuse to get out of the ocean.
Lyra sits on my couch, her wrist held close to her chest, crimson eyes sweeping across my furniture and bookshelf and the herbs that are hanging upside down to dry.
I shouldn’t have brought her in here. It would’ve been better to sit her in the garden, like when we ate carrot cake together, and tend to her wrist outside. But it felt inconsiderate, somehow. So now she’s here, in my home, where very few ever are.
Basket full of the supplies I need, I walk into the sitting room to join her, my hooves thumping across the hardwood floor. Her gaze flicks to me as I slowly sink onto the couch beside her, being careful to keep my tail away from her and maintain distance between us—though it’s somewhat difficult, seeing as I take up most of the couch on my own.
“You really don’t have to,” she says, but the fire has gone out of her voice. She doesn’t mean it.
“Let me see it.” I set the basket on the floor by my hooves, then hold out a hand.
Lyra hesitates. She assesses my hand as if determining whether or not it’s safe. Then, slowly, seeming to have made her decision, she settles her wrist into my grip.
“It’s warm,” I say immediately.
She shrugs. “I’m always warm. Fire magic.”
I don’t look up at her. It seems dangerous to do so. “I know. But this feels like inflammation. It’s already swelling.”
“Oh . . .”
“I don’t have ice, but I can wrap it. That’ll help support it and reduce swelling.”
