Page 18 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 18

G retta woke from a dream she couldn’t remember with her skin flushed and her thighs shivering. Her body throbbed, a stiff breeze away from going over. Groaning, she rolled to her back.

When had she last climaxed? In Antrelle, she’d been too preoccupied for self-gratification. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d dredged up the motivation to find a bed partner.

Under the circumstances, falling asleep reading Ansel’s smut might not have been the best idea. She considered dipping a hand down her pants to take care of it but resisted. With her luck, that would be the moment Ansel invented some excuse to burst in uninvited.

It also felt sordid to do that in his bed, between his sheets, in the very spot where he read his dirty books. She could only imagine what the touch-starved recluse did to himself there.

Desperate for distraction, she stared out the window. Dawn would come in an hour or so. The rain and wind had quieted, and birds twittered outside.

The storm was over. Gretta would soon meet the swamp witch.

Despite how long she’d waited for that, nervousness tinged her eagerness. The crone had duped Ansel into believing they were friends, but Gretta wasn’t so easily fooled. In all her years hunting, she hadn’t found a single witch without captives or corpses on her property, often both. The one in the swamp must be better at hiding it.

Was meeting her while wearing an aggression inhibitor stupid? Gretta planned to douse herself in spell repellent, but that wouldn’t do anything against a meat cleaver or pistol. Could she count on Ansel to keep the witch in line? Would he intervene if she attacked Gretta?

Only one way to find out. Whatever her reservations, there was no chance in hell she’d turn down this opportunity. Even if the witch was another dead end where Nat was concerned, so many questions had plagued Gretta for years, and now she’d get to ask them. She may not be able to carry out her usual methods of justice, but she could always come back to finish the job.

Still overheated, she kicked off the bedding. The friction intensified the craving between her legs.

She’d never be able to focus like this. There was nothing for it but to take the edge off. Keeping a wary eye on the door, she unbuttoned her pants and pushed them past her knees. Thighs spread, she slipped two fingers into her drawers and got three strokes in when a muffled groan came from the hall.

Scrambling for her pants, she sat, listening.

No other sound came. Gretta waited a while longer, and as she was about to settle in to finish what she’d started, a sharp cry came from the hall. Palming her dagger, she leapt to her feet and crept to the door.

Another moan came, this one quieter. She unlocked the door and peeked out.

A lantern lit the corridor. Ansel lay on his side, tightly curled in the fetal position. Tension bunched his muscles, but he was fast asleep.

What the hell was he doing there? Guarding her?

He let out a deep groan, followed by a child-like whimper, and Gretta’s fingers tightened around the door frame.

She should leave him to his nightmares. It wasn’t her problem if he’d never learned to sleep well.

Instead, she crouched beside him, calling herself every word for idiot. “Ansel, wake up.”

He flinched but didn’t open his eyes. Some of his shirt buttons were undone, exposing his visibly pounding heart.

“Wake up,” she said, shaking his shoulder.

His eyes flew open. He looked at her, but she could tell he wasn’t seeing.

“My turn,” he whispered.

“Your turn for what?”

“ Oven. ”

Gretta’s blood turned to slush. She knew exactly what he dreamed about—their last night in the cottage. The night the Eater had decided it was Ansel’s turn.

The cunt had wheezed it bluntly, without inflection. Some throat disease had damaged her voice, preventing her from singing the words that lured children, and she hadn’t eaten in a week. Desperate with hunger, the witch’s sights had turned to her captives.

The witch had dragged Ansel from their cage. He fought, kicking and biting, but his young, malnourished body had been too frail to take her on. She drove him toward the oven, grabbing the cleaver off the butcher block, squeezing the skimpy flesh on his arm.

In her hungry delirium, she forgot to lock the cage door on Gretta…

“Hey.” She shook him again, gentler this time. “She’s dead. You’ve got to snap out of it.”

His brows pinched together. “Gretta?”

“Yeah. I’m here.”

He seemed to absorb her presence slowly, like she was some concept he couldn’t understand. Closing his unfocused eyes, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in her lap.

With a gasp, Gretta raised her arms. “Hey, no! Get off!”

His arms tightened, and he nuzzled her thigh. His breath became slow and even.

The asshole had fallen back asleep.

“Goddammit, Ansel,” she muttered. She ought to shove him off with a pithy reminder they weren’t friends anymore, but Gretta didn’t have it in her. Her own mind still churned out memories of that night, and she couldn’t leave anyone alone with that kind of misery. Not even him.

Sighing, she draped an arm on his shoulders—there was nowhere else to put it—and counted bricks on the opposite wall. She’d wait a few minutes, then sneak away to catch another hour or two of sleep.

Bright sunlight from the bedroom doorway nearly blinded Gretta, and she turned from it, wincing. Her face landed in a mess of dark hair.

Oh . Fuck.

Ansel lay half on top of her, quietly snoring into her neck. He had his arms crossed under her back and a thigh wedged between her legs. Infinitely worse, one of Gretta’s hands had found its way into his hair.

The other cupped his ass.

She sucked in a breath, flinging her arms away. His big body lay like a cadaver, all pliant dead weight, and if it wasn’t for his light snore, she’d have wondered if he’d died in the night.

Something else indicated he was very much alive—the massive erection pressed against her hip. It dug into her like a gun barrel, iron-hard and a little intimidating.

Holding her breath, she carefully dragged his arm out from under her. It flopped to the side, and she shifted beneath him. His eyes remained closed, but a little furrow appeared between them, and when she moved her leg, a low groan rumbled in his chest. His hips rocked against her.

Gretta froze. He thrust two more times before going still. Warm electricity flooded her lower body, and her thighs instinctively clenched his leg. Horrified, she parted them.

No fucking way am I getting turned on right now.

She shoved him off, no longer giving a shit if he woke.

He startled awake and groggily sat, pushing hair off his forehead. She’d made it to the doorway when he said, “Gretta?”

Face on fire, she turned.

“What time is it?” he yawned.

She dragged her eyes off his half-buttoned shirt. “Morning.”

“Did you just get up?”

“Uh…yeah.”

He stood, rubbing his face. Aside from his half-mast dick, he didn’t seem outwardly affected. Had she gotten away before he noticed their illicit morning cuddle?

“The storm ended,” she said as though everything was perfectly normal. “I’m going to get cleaned up, then we can leave.”

He nodded. “I’ll do the same. After I check on the others, I’ll come for you.”

She hurled herself into the bedroom and slammed the door.