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“You have a magical signature. It’s fuzzy but muted with her color.” Bram paces a circle around me. “But this signature… Something isn’t right.”
“Later,” I snarl. “Mor—Olivia”—I sigh, raking a hand through my hair—“whoever she is, she barely lives.”
“What the hell?” Concern tightens Bram’s expression. “Take me to her.”
’Tis possible he can help, but I trust him not. “What will you do?”
He sends me a hard stare. “You called me for a reason.”
Aye, desperation. “Hurt her, and I will kill you.”
I storm into the cottage and down the hall. He rushes behind as I push into my bedchamber and cover her naked form.
She has worsened these few minutes past.
When Bram catches sight of her, he stops cold. “Oh, no.”
“What ails her? Is it magical?”
He approaches the bed, then lays a palm over her forehead before he counts the pulse at her neck. Even if she is ill, watching the varlet touch her whilst naught but a thin sheet covers her nearly has me snarling out a threat.
When she kicks, exposing a lush hip and a womanly thigh, I shove the wizard aside, block his view, and cover her again.
She clasps surprisingly strong fingers around my wrist, but her voice sounds near death. “Need… Touch.”
This again. I close my eyes. Last night, I touched her and reveled in every second of the pleasure. And even if I never find satisfaction, I ache to heap ecstasy on the beauty in my bed. But not whilst she lies at death’s door.
“What ails her is magical, is it not?” I ask Bram as I extract myself from her grip.
“I can’t say.”
“Listen, you spell-casting bastard, ponder later how you can use the fact I have bound myself to Morgana or some Le Fay witch for eternity. Now, you will tell me what the bloody hell sickens her. I refuse to watch her die.”
“My Aunt Millie should see Olivia. Her magic is of the heart. She is an expert in matters of mating and family. She can likely explain this. I’ll also do a bit of research—”
“We have not the time to locate others and browse dusty tomes. Do something!”
“This won’t take long.” Bram files from the room.
I should follow and watch the miscreant, but every instinct tells me not to leave the witch in my bed.
Moments later, a knock resounds through my cottage.
“Invite my aunt in,” Bram yells.
Easy capitulation is unwise. He insists we are friends, but I am not daft. He merely wants the Book of Doomsday. If not for the blasted tome, the wizard would likely leave my feverish mate to die.
Scowling, I race to the door and glare at the older woman standing just outside.
She is fey-looking—small stature, dancing blue eyes, and glowing skin. Her age? She could be anywhere between forty and four thousand. She wears a sedate blue dress with white flowers that ends just below her knees and a long gray jacket of the same length. Her sensible black shoes and matching bowler hat nearly convince me she is harmless.
“You have an ill mate, dear?” She smiles.
The expression transforms her. Goodness shines from her eyes. She wears serenity like a second skin.
I nod. “Come in.”
Millie crosses the threshold, studying me with a hint of a frown. “Is she in bed?”
