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“Stop!” Her wild violet stare leaps from her pale face. She shoves at the little towel, again baring her taut nipples. “Touch…me.”
She cannot mean that the way it sounds.
I reach for the bucket. “With ice?”
“No!”
She clutches my shirt. “With. Your. Hands.”
The witch wants me to touch her sexually? Whilst she burns with fever? Is this some side-effect of the magical mating words we spoke?
“Lie back.”
I lift the wet towel from her, fetch my fan from the wardrobe, and plug in the whirring device. As it stirs the air, I study the woman. Morgana? Olivia? Whoever she is, her fever spirals out of control. Her desire for sex must be delusion.
The witch who cursed me centuries ago would never fall prey to that sort of weakness.
Again, the possibility crosses my mind, unbidden. Did I kidnap the wrong woman?
Morgana could not have been a virgin. Nor would she ever have shown a hint of vulnerability, especially to me.
God, is this woman truly Olivia Gray, a different Le Fay? If aye, she will wish to skewer me, and I would deserve it. But now, I must discern what ails her. She grows paler by the moment, her breaths more agitated, her body increasingly restless.
She rubs her hand across her belly, then slides it lower, her fingers plunging between her spread thighs. Planting her feet on the mattress, she lifts her hips and parts her wet folds. “Marrok…”
Her breathy plea shoots fire straight to my cock, but I resist. The woman needs rest, not sex.
Mayhap my presence agitates her, and she will improve if I leave her sight?
I slosh water in a cup, then approach, aspirin in hand. We battle until she swallows the tablets and half the water.
Then I pace to the living room, worried as hell, sinking to the sofa to whittle on the carving I began earlier. Still, I cannot take my mind off the woman in my bed.
For the next hour, she refuses food and screams—for me, for my touch, for my cock. I grit my teeth as her shouts become whimpers, then, as afternoon approaches, they dim to broken moans. Then silence, disturbed only by her restless thrashing in the eerie quiet.
For the hundredth time, I creep down the hall and risk a peek at my magical “wife.” She lies as hauntingly still and pale as death.
I race to her side and press my fingers to her carotid. Her pulse is thin and erratic. She scarcely breathes. At the thought of losing her, denial roars.
Who the bloody hell can help her? A doctor? Aspirin did naught, and never have I seen anyone suffering a flu-like fever crave sex.
This must be a magical malady.
Who could I…? Bram. Yes. I will summon the devious wizard and pray the man imparts something useful.
No doubt his help will come at a price.
I dart across the room and yank open a drawer, finding the white pebble the wizard handed me yesterday. I run to the back door, fling it open, and toss the rock in the air. “Bram Rion.”
Seconds later, a pop and a screech fill the air as the stone morphs into a large white bird and flies away.
Less than two minutes later, Bram appears from the misty woods, looking stylish as ever in a midnight blue oxford and pristine black pants.
I have been around magic and suffered its cruelties for centuries. Yet some feats still amaze me. “The rock actually brought you here.”
“Of course. It’s a simple spell. I bewitched my first rock at age four and—” Bram frowns. Then he gawks at me. “You mated with her? You exchanged magical vows?”
I still. “How do you know?”
