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Ivy’s brows crease with concern as she offers her arm to me as proof of the pain. “Did you feel that?”
I assume her arm lit up with fire the same way mine did at my retreat, since I see no woodland creature that might have bit her in the three seconds my back was turned. Still, I trace my fingers over her bicep, as if I am capable of soothing the sting.
As if she is mine to care for, which she is not.
A deep sigh trickles over my body from head to toe at the contact. There’s a relief that comforts my nerves, like a drug I didn’t know existed that heals my broken bits as easily as breathing.
I clear my throat, but don’t release her arm. I should stop touching her, but that sort of willpower isn’t in my back pocket. I stroke her bicep lovingly, softly, addicting myself to her coconut shampoo and the gentle musk of her sweat.
Damn her pink sports bra with her buoyant breasts.
“Better?” I’m asking if her arm feels better now, sure, but part of me wonders if I am the thing that gives her the same relief that is swimming through me. Something this heady can’t possibly be one way.
She swallows as her gaze climbs to my face. Being this close to her is dizzying for reasons I cannot quantify. “Much better,” she whispers, her breathing shallow.
I jerk my chin in a new direction. “Maybe Grayrock isn’t the right way to go. I’ll try a different way.”
She shakes her head. “But then why didmyarm start burning? I didn’t move!” Her eyes dart left to right and back again, like she is trying to do long division in her head. I can’t look away; her nuances have me completely enraptured. “It’s not the water the witch wants. If it was and you went the wrong way, only you would be in pain, not me. Try…” She bites down on her lower lip, and I have to remind myself not to thumb at the plump swell.
She is not mine.
But when her light gray eyes meet mine, I begin to forget all sorts of things, like the fact that she is a witch, and this could very well be a spell she’s cast over me. Or like the truth that we are two different sects of people, and the two never intermingle in any sort of romantic way. Hell, even among shifters, we don’t venture to other animals. A bear shifter only ever hooks up with a bear shifter.
The punishment for being romantically involved with someone outside your sect is a swift and public stoning. While I’ve never been witness to that being carried out, I’m not about to be the fool to test it.
This isn’t… But the longer I stand beside Ivy stroking her arm, the more lightheaded I become. All the realities of our world begin to fade to the background, as if they are mere suggestions, and not rules. Ivy leans into the touch, her faint coo of helplessness hitting the forest air. Of all the things I hear—cicadas, crickets, the rustling of leaves—that tiny sound settles in my soul as if it was meant only for me. As if her moment of powerlessness is mine to protect.
An alarm blares in my psyche, alerting me to the knowledge that this is exactly how mating is described. It’s a force of nature that directs you and seals you to your mate. But it’s not possible that it’s happening now. Not with her.
But when her fingers tangle through mine, something clicks into place. It’s like before this moment, there was a chaotic part of me that never intended on calming.
My fingers memorize the feel of her hand—her dainty and thin fingers woven seamlessly through mine. The sensation is simultaneously new and familiar, as if we’ve been joined exactly like this for ages on some level, yet it’s married with the thrill of it being our first time.
At that thought, I drop her hand and back away, noting the danger in falling so easily for someone so very different than me. I don’t recognize myself. I’m holding hands with a witch?
Any lightness in my features slams abruptly. It doesn’t matter if she might need me to speak to her to figure this out. I shift back into my bear form in the next breath and back away, as if she is the danger.
Which she very well might be. There’s no other explanation for me feeling the way I am, except that I’ve been bewitched.
Ivy’s eyes widen at my sudden shift in demeanor and form. She examines her fingers as if she too felt the same connection that couldn’t and shouldn’t have happened. “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.” She runs her thumb over her fingers, as if she can still feel the tingle of our connection. Even though I’ve shifted, I can feel her touch on my paw.
She keeps her gaze from me now, as if I am still naked.
In fact, I feel naked, stripped, and raw, anxious for approval yet not knowing how her smile could possibly matter to my life in any practical sense.
I’ve appreciated beauty outside my sect, of course, but in a fleeting “That’s nice to look at,” sort of way. But I cannot stop staring at Ivy, drinking in the details of this woman who has no right to have captivated me so wholly and quickly.
She’s sporting running shoes that look worn and spotted. Does she wear them often, or are they too old and need replacing? Does she always run at night? Why? Running during daylight is far safer for a beautiful woman. Doesn’t she know she could be snatched at? The stretchy material of the black shorts paired with her pink sports bra tells me she isn’t carrying any protection with her.
Though, she is a witch. She could carry a tiny packet of herbs in her bra to be used as a weapon if needed. Witches are sneaky like that. You can never be too sure what’s real and what’s not when a witch is involved. They can cast spells that make you think you’re in love, make you forget your name, make you…
Ivy is the daughter of Fern Moon—one of the most notorious witches in my memory. This night makes no sense—me being out here, drawn to her so unnaturally. I can’t believe I didn’t see the trickery before now.
I don’t realize I am growling until she backs away from me, as if I could ever bring myself to harm her. No, I don’t want to hurt her. I only want to scare her enough that she never tries this witchy shit again.
Ivy whimpers, and the sound cuts straight through my heart because I made it happen. I’m scaring her, and I’m doing it on purpose. She holds up her hands, taking a step back with wide eyes that catch the moonlight as if she is made of pure magic.
Which she sort of is.
