Page 49 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

His nostrils flared in irritation. Not that he had any reason to be. She had every right to give him the cold shoulder.

He stomped after her, moving less fluidly than was usual.

They continued like this the rest of the afternoon. Him asking her little questions. How long had she owned the bunnies? Three years. How were her classes going this semester? Fine. Was she going back home for the holidays? No.

She answered every question with a single word to shut him down. He did his best not to let his irritation get the better of him.

When he finally suggested they turn around, the afternoon sun was falling fast. While he could find his way back in the dark without issue, he didn’t want her getting hurt. Not because he’d have to carry her. In fact, he liked that idea very much. But because the thought of her injured made his stomach roil.

He set the pace, taking the lead given that he intimately knew the lay of the land.

It was full dark by the time they entered the cabin. “I’ll start on dinner,” he jumped in to say.

“Sure.” That she didn’t argue illustrated just how hurt she was.

“See to the little snacks.”

“Planning on it.”

He sighed. It was on the tip of his tongue to try and better explain his reasoning. But… He needed this. Needed her to keep the distance between them. Which meant he needed to stop pushing. To stop trying to get her to warm to him again.

Which was why he made himself scarce after dinner, taking another run through the wilderness. Returning in the wee hours of the morning to sleep on the sofa in the loft. Tossing and turning knowing she was cuddled in his bed. Just imagining her there…

Luckily, sleep wasn’t as imperative in his old age. With each passing century he needed less of it. Which was why he still managed to rise before dawn, set a pot of coffee on and assess his options.

It was Sunday.

Did she like waffles? Or perhaps pancakes? Cinnamon rolls? Damn it.

He stood in front of the pantry, his thoughts jumping through options. “Fuck it.” In the end, he decided on pumpkin bread—because he happened to have a jar of unopened pumpkin puree from last year—omelets, and diced fruit.

The bread took an hour to bake so he started that first. Then he did the fruit, putting it in the fridge to chill afterward, and the omelets. He loaded them with diced ham and cheese and placed them on the warmer.

While the bread was finishing up, he washed and cleaned four types of lettuce, a bunch of cilantro, and sliced a few carrots into small pieces, loading it together in a fancy arrangement. Then he went to greet the little snacks. It wasn’t quite seven yet. But they were eager.

“Bet she never spoils you with early breakfast, huh?”

They were still wary of him, darting into their hiding holes when he opened the enclosure. He set about tidying things up and left the gate open. She hadn’t allowed them to free roam yet, so he decided to give it a try. Sure enough, they ignored their salad entirely and cautiously slipped past him as he cleaned out their boxes, refilling them with some of the pine pellets she kept in a container nearby, then topping them with hay. He discarded the mess in the garbage bin outside.

When he returned, the little snacks were slipping and sliding their way from rug to rug. Not hopping, but walking comically on all fours, sniffing and then rubbing their chins all over everything. Claiming each piece of furniture as their own. He watched for a moment, amused. “Just because you mark it doesn’t make it yours,” he said, his voice a low, teasing growl.

“What…?”

He smelled her enter the room. But he waited a moment before looking up. It was good that he had, because his gaze immediately honed in on the oversized shirt she was wearing. His shirt. And from the looks of it⁠—

“I’ve got shorts on underneath,” she warned him, tugging up the side of the shirt to show off something he barely considered shorts. Black panties, mostly. He wasn’t sure the small bit of fabric counted as more than that.

Her legs. Her creamy thighs. Generous enough to hold on to. Something he could anchor himself to as he rutted into her⁠—

His cock chose that moment to swell. He clenched his teeth, forcing it to calm, but it was no use.

She was wearing his fucking shirt.

“Before you get angry⁠—”

“I’m not angry⁠—”

“The way you just growled when you said that⁠—”