Page 92 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

“Rest, sweetheart. I’ve got them.”

I watched him cross the room, herding one and then the other into their enclosure, still shirtless, the firelight playing across the muscles of his back. Watched him crouch down at the entrance to the enclosure before he closed it, and speak softly to Basil and Sage, his voice too low for me to hear. Watched him carefully refresh their hay, check their water.

This man. This impossible, frustrating, wonderful man.

When he returned, I was already sitting up, the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “I should head to bed.”

Something flickered across his face—disappointment, maybe, quickly hidden. Had he hoped I would invite him? It was on the tip of my tongue, but…I needed to process.

“Good idea,” he said. “Long day tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” I stood, gathering my discarded clothes but not bothering to put them on. The blanket was enough. “Goodnight, Axel.”

“Goodnight, Rebecca.”

I paused at the bedroom door, looking back at him. He stood by the fire, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

“For what it’s worth,” I said quietly, “whatever you’re afraid of? I’m not going anywhere. Curse or no curse. You’re stuck with me.”

His throat bobbed. “You might feel differently. When it’s time to put me down.”

“I won’t.” Because there would be no putting him down.

“You can’t know that.”

“Watch me.”

I held his gaze for a moment longer, willing him to believe me. Then I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door.

24

Thursday afternoon at The Roost had become something of a ritual. My favorite table by the window, a cup of tea, a stack of assignments to grade. The autumn light filtering through the glass, painting everything in shades of gold.

I’d made it through most of Tyler’s problem set—still struggling with vector notation, bless his heart—when the door chimed. My head lifted automatically, the way it always did now. Axel. I exhaled at the welcome sight of him, trying to ignore the flutter in my belly. The memories of how hard he made me come last night.

He filled the doorway the way he always did, broad shoulders blocking out the afternoon sun. His eyes found mine immediately, that invisible thread between us pulling taut. He gave me a slight nod, then made his way to the counter.

Iris brightened when she saw him. “Axel! Your usual?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I watched them interact—Iris’s slightly flushed cheeks, the way she lingered over making his coffee, the bright smile she gave him when she handed over his chocolate-chocolate-chunk cookie. He barely seemed to notice, already turning toward me.

Warmth settled in my chest as he approached. This man. This impossible, wonderful man. Last night’s tension had melted into something softer by morning—a kiss pressed to my temple when he handed me my coffee, his hand lingering at my back as I headed out the door. A kiss on the back of my hand when he said goodbye after taking me to campus. Small touches. Careful ones. Like he was testing the waters after our argument. After I’d chosen to trust him anyway.

I liked it. Maybe too much.

“Ready to go?” He stood over my table, cookie in one hand, coffee in the other.

“Just about.” I shuffled my papers together, tucking them into my bag. “Let me just get everything together.”

I stood, ready to shoulder my bag when Axel shuffled his cookie to the hand holding his coffee and grabbed it, shouldering it instead.

“Such a gentlemen,” I teased. But now I knew he was—truly. Especially knowing how old he was.

That thought settled heavy on me. He’d come from a different time. A different world, really.

We made our way to the door. He opened it, of course, balancing his coffee and cookie.