Page 38 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 38

S quinting awake, Gretta fumbled for her watch on the nightstand before remembering there wasn’t a nightstand. She turned up the lantern beside her.

Her pants lay in a heap at her feet, and she dug her watch from the pocket. It was early, but early was good. She had a witch to slay and a train to catch. With a deep yawn, she scratched her stomach. Then her eyes landed on the duffel bag and case beside the door.

Ansel’s luggage. Ansel’s room. She’d fallen asleep in Ansel’s bed.

So much for not being the clingy type.

Flushing, Gretta checked between her legs. Still wet, still tender. It was lucky her ovulation cycle wouldn’t begin for weeks because pregnancy hadn’t even crossed her mind in the moment.

She snagged her drawers off the floor and used them to wipe up.

And, of course, Ansel chose that exact moment to return—shirtless. When he saw her, he stopped in the doorway and squeezed the towel draped around his neck. A water droplet fell from his damp hair to his chest. Entranced, Gretta watched it roll to his hard nipple.

He gave his head a little shake and entered, closing the door behind him. “Sorry.”

Without looking at her, he pulled on a clean shirt and finished toweling his hair, cool and casual, as though catching a friend wiping his come off her privates was an everyday occurrence.

But casual was also good. That had been the plan. Gretta only wished she could forget so easily. She was on the brink of doing something stupid, like seeing if he wanted to make doubly sure they’d gotten it out of their systems.

“Sorry I fell asleep here,” she said. “I hope I didn’t bother you.”

“It’s fine. The bathing chamber is empty if you’d like to use it.” He didn’t so much as glance at her.

Cheeks heating, Gretta gathered her pants and escaped to her room.

After a quick bath, she returned and collected her hunting satchel. She found Ansel and Lil waiting for her outside the loot room.

“Sleep well, munchkin?” Lil asked.

“Um.” Do not look at Ansel . “Fine, thanks.”

Lil led them to the kitchen where Tadpole served them mushroom omelets. They ate quickly, and followed Lil from the caves. Despite his remoteness, Ansel stayed close behind Gretta as they went through the tunnel and up the staircase.

On the bluff, Lil whistled for a crane and helped them mount. Gretta considered flying herself, but decided it would be better to wait until her dust fully replenished. Especially considering the lake that day. It crashed violently against the cliff, spraying cold mist. The tepid, overcast sun offered little warmth, reminding Gretta more of late fall than spring.

As the crane ascended, she lurched, and Ansel wrapped his arm around her waist—a purely functional gesture that made her pulse flicker.

Was this her new reality? Mooning over his naked chest, swooning over his goddamn forearm around her waist? Who the hell had she become ?

The ride was brief, and Ansel promptly released her. When they disembarked on another bluff, Lil said, “Her cottage is a half mile that way. I’ll wait for you here. Good luck, munchkin.”

Gretta nodded. She and Ansel started up the path.

The chill wind rustled overgrown oaks, making their branches creak. It brought the smell of rotting acorns and soil moistened with recently melted snow. Though green buds dotted the branches, no leaves had opened yet, and the underbrush looked scratchy and dead. In a few more weeks, everything would be green. Gretta wouldn’t have minded that cheerier backdrop.

Breathing rhythmically, she counted her steps. After giving Ansel a sideways glance, she took a nip off the flask in her satchel. She’d determined to cut back, but extenuating circumstances.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Nah. I’ve done this plenty of times.”

He frowned. “Do you usually start drinking so early, then?”

A sharp comment about minding one’s own business sprang to her lips, but it fizzled. He didn’t sound critical, just concerned. And Ansel was her friend again. Didn’t he understand her better than anyone?

She sighed. “No, I don’t usually drink so early. The truth is…this part of hunting does make me a little nervous.”

His gaze dipped to her, softening. “What part? The approach?”

“Yeah. Once I’m inside, my head’s in the game but…I don’t know. Stuff gets stirred up beforehand.”

“Memories come back.”

“Exactly. It’s like the walk there gives me time to think about her.” She hesitated. “Does that ever happen to you?”

He laughed. “All the goddamn time. Only, for me, there’s no distinct pattern. It’s worse at night, but the most trivial things will set me off. Once, a boy brought his pet raven to school, and I didn’t return for a week.”

That didn’t seem trivial to her. The Eater’s wood had been empty of animals except a murder of aggressive, beady-eyed crows.

“Since you don’t drink,” she said, “how do you deal with it?”

“Working, when possible. Breathing. Counting still helps. But mostly I just learned to live with it.”

“Same here.” To a tee.

They continued walking at an unhurried pace. The smell of woodsmoke from a chimney tinged the air. They were getting close.

“How do you feel when you’re face to face with a witch?” he asked.

“For damn sure I don’t usually hyperventilate.”

He smiled. “Isobel excluded, then.”

Gretta picked up a twig and started snapping it into pieces. “I’m focused. Aware. But breathing gets harder and my heart pounds. My legs want to run.”

“Hyper-arousal is a natural symptom of relived trauma. It stimulates our fight or flight response.”

She smiled because of course he’d filter it through science. “The thing is, I hate wanting to run. It feels weak. My mind knows I’m not helpless anymore, but my body doesn’t get the message.”

“Do you actually run?”

“Well…no.”

“Does it paralyze you? Keep you from following through?”

“I guess not.”

“So how is that weakness?”

She shrugged. But she took his point.

“What we do with fear is more important than our reasons for feeling it.” He glanced at her sideways, bodily nudging her. “Like I said at Isobel’s, you’re brave as fuck.”

The overwrought moths returned and not from nerves. Her arm wanted to wrap around his waist, but after last night, that would definitely toe the friendship line. She settled for nudging him back.

“There’s another thing,” she said. “This hunt is different.”

“Because I’m here?”

“Well, yeah, but also because I usually surprise them, and they’re dead before they can get a spell out. This time, we’re doing research.”

He darted a hand out to stop her. “I don’t want you fucking around in there. Do whatever it is you normally do, and get out. We’ll find some other way to test the repellent.”

She couldn’t help another smile. “I’ve got this, Anse. And the repellent is going to work.”

“Then let me go in first. It’s my product, I should bear the risk.”

“I promise I’ll be fine. I know what I’m doing.”

He considered a moment, studying her face. Finally, he relented. “You better let me know if you need help.”

“I will.” And she meant it.

They continued on in silence until a cramped hovel appeared on a cliff. Its boards had worn to silver, and pine needles littered the roof. Gretta might have thought it abandoned if not for the smoke curling from the chimney.

She took a deep breath of the clammy air. Here was Ansel and Gretta taking on another cottage, another witch. But now they weren’t defenseless.

“Spray me,” she said.

Ansel took a bottle from the case and carefully misted every inch of her. After doing the same to him, she unfurled her silver cloak and put it on. Finger to her lips, she led him to the witch’s front door.

She crouched to inspect the lock—a basic tumbler. She quickly picked it and oiled the hinges.

When she gave him a reassuring wink, he returned it with a tentative smile. The last of Gretta’s fear blew away on the breeze.

She turned the knob and welcomed herself in.

Ansel leaned against the clapboard cottage, ears trained. Gretta moved like a ghost inside. She likely flew because not a squeaking board or rustled curtain gave her away. The quiet unsettled him more than a brawl.

He imagined kicking the door in, changing their strategy from stealth to brute force, but he stopped himself. He believed her when she said she knew what she was doing. Besides, bursting in like a rabid bear would only put her at greater risk.

He focused on a dead rosebush, a broken fencepost, a tree that had been scorched by lightning. For a third time, he glanced at his watch.

A yawn climbed his throat, but he was too tense to let it out. Bone-deep fatigue didn’t improve the wait. He’d barely slept the night before, rather, stared at Gretta’s back, watching her breathe, contemplating the fact that he’d fucked his childhood best friend.

His current best friend.

And he wanted to do it again.

It hadn’t helped when he’d woken from a doze to find Gretta’s face in his neck and her naked thigh cuddling his morning erection. Another day with the Eater would have tortured him less. He’d nearly nudged her awake to see if she wanted to compound the damage they’d already done, but he’d instead escaped to a cold bath.

She’d clearly established their night together was a one-time thing. And that remained for the best. Fucking her had been a decadent, staggering, unforgettable experience he shouldn’t have let happen in the first place.

Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. And he couldn’t unfuck her, so there was little point in stewing about it. He’d simply move on and embrace her friendship with gratitude. He’d keep his cock in his pants and his heart off his sleeve.

He would not fuck this up.

A piercing screech came from the cottage, and Ansel shot straighter, muscles coiled to spring.

Gretta opened a window. “I’m fine! Just need a minute.”

Four minutes and twenty-seven seconds passed before she poked her head out again.

“Oh my god,” she said. “This place is a sty. But if you can stand the smell, come on in!”