Page 3 of Kissing Potions and Elves (Oakvale Ever After #1)

ISOBEL

“ I need to clean up before we leave.” I scramble to my feet. My cheeks are still damp and I feel foolish, but I can’t just leave the place like this. “It won’t take long.”

Lyrion arches an elegant brow. “Leave it. I’ll pay Tressa for the damages.”

“But I can’t just leave it like this!”

“Why not?”

“Because…” I gesture at the floor, the shattered glass, the ruined herbs. “Who else is going to clean it up, if not me?”

He stares at me like I’ve said something incomprehensible.

“I made the mess, so it’s only right that I fix it,” I explain. “I’ll be quick.”

He exhales through his nose like I’m being monumentally inconvenient but waves a hand. “Very well. Proceed.”

I hurry back to the shelves and start sweeping up the herbs with a dustpan and brush. I move so fast, I nearly knock over another stack of vials in the process.

Lyrion clears his throat behind me, but I don’t look back. I can practically feel his violet gaze burning holes in the back of my head.

“I can’t believe I did this,” I mutter under my breath as I scoop handfuls of crushed herbs into a jar and then reach for a shard of glass. “Ow!” I snatch my hand back, clutching it against my chest. Blood wells along the cut.

“What happened?” Lyrion is at my side in an instant. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” I mumble, already turning away. “I’ve had worse.” It hurts, but I don’t want him to think I’m pitiful and useless. “It’s just a little—”

“Let. Me. See.” He sounds irritated, but also mildly alarmed.

Reluctantly, I hold out my hand.

Lyrion takes it carefully. His hands are large and strong, and his touch is surprisingly warm as he cradles my palm in his own, inspecting my cut.

“This looks painful, Isobel.” His voice is quiet now, softer, and I’m surprised, given what I’ve done to him, that he’s not yelling or angry. “That’s it. We’re going to the healer,” he declares.

“What? No! We can’t bother him, it’s late.”

“He needs to look at this.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s bleeding.”

“ All cuts bleed. It’s not an emergency.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the healer’s job to heal people. That’s literally in the title.”

I frown. “I’m not going to wake someone up for a simple injury.”

He looks perplexed. Like the idea that someone wouldn’t demand help just because they could is foreign to him.

I point toward the cabinet. “There are bandages in there. Just give me a moment, and I’ll—”

“No.” He points to a nearby stool. “Sit.”

Pursing my lips, I do as he says.

Lyrion grabs a vial of salve and linen strips, and returns to my side. He kneels before me on the herb-dusted floor. His hair falls forward, a sleek curtain of ink-black silk, as he unscrews the salve.

This close, his delicious masculine scent completely surrounds me, heady and potent. My heart is hammering so loudly I wonder if he can hear it with those sharp, Elvish ears of his.

“This might sting a bit,” he warns.

Thankfully, it doesn’t hurt. Instead, it tingles, and feels cool and refreshing as the mildly astringent scent wafts into my nose.

His fingers brush over mine as he works, and I swallow hard, trying not to stare at his hands or the way his sleeves pull slightly to reveal the muscles along his forearms as he gently wraps the linen around my cut, like I’m something delicate.

It’s been so long since anyone cared for me like this.

His fingers are long and elegant, like they were made for sketching runes or turning pages of ancient books.

Do all elves have hands like this?

The tips of his fingers skim over the back of my hand as he carefully ties off the bandage. Our heads are bent close together, so close that I can feel the featherlight brush of his breath against my cheek, warm and scented faintly of mint.

I look up to thank him, and freeze, because he’s staring at me again.

His eyes are darker now, their violet color swirling with black, and they drop slowly, hungrily to my mouth.

My breath catches as he leans in. Before I can move or even think to pull away, his warm mouth covers mine as he kisses me again.

His lips press to my own with a slow, burning hunger that curls through my body like fire as he gently coaxes my mouth to open to his. I surrender with a helpless sigh and his tongue strokes against mine as he deepens our kiss.

His strong hands wrap possessively around my waist as he draws me close. I clutch at his tunic, melting into him as every sensible thought scatters.

Deep down, I know it’s the potion, but I cannot make myself push him away. It feels too real. Too perfect. Too much like the thing I’ve always dreamed of but never dared hope I might have.

Reality snaps back into focus, and I break away abruptly, gasping for air.

Lyrion’s jaw tightens as he stands. “Apologies,” he says, voice clipped and distant.

He clearly doesn’t like what just happened. Not the kiss. Not the loss of control. And most certainly not me.

Embarrassment heats my cheeks as I turn away and sweep the last of the scattered herbs into a neat pile, grateful to have something to distract me from the awkward moment between us.

When I’m finished, I clear my throat. “So… what’s the plan exactly?”

“We’re going to my cottage,” he says crisply.

“But what about Tressa?” I ask, already imagining her horror when she discovers what I’ve done to her beautifully organized shelves full of herbs.

“We’ll return before the café opens, and I’ll pay her for the damages.”

I frown. “The café’s closed tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“She’s out of town. She went to Taversham to buy some supplies for the café, in anticipation of the upcoming festival.”

He looks at me blankly. “What festival?”

I gape at him. “The Spring Festival. It lasts for a week. Music? Flowers? Spun sugar? Dancing? It’s one of the biggest celebrations of the season. There are even festivities held each weekend before the main event.”

He looks deeply unimpressed.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “Of course you wouldn’t know. You probably avoid celebrations.”

“I avoid them because they are loud .” He sniffs. “We’ll speak to her when she returns then.” He strides toward the front. “Get your cloak.”

We step outside into soft, steady rain.

Of course.

Lyrion pulls his hood over his head, and I do the same. My shoes are old and worn, the paper-thin soles not meant for this sort of weather. Carefully, I hop between relatively dry spots, dodging puddles.

Lyrion stops. He watches me for a moment with a look somewhere between disbelief and mild irritation. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Trying to keep my feet dry. I don’t want the water to seep into my shoes.”

He sighs heavily. “Come here.”

I’m not sure why I feel compelled to listen, but I do.

He looks down at me. “May I?”

“May you what ?”

Instead of answering, he steps forward and gathers me in his arms, lifting me off the ground as if I weigh nothing.

A startled squeak escapes me, my hands flailing awkwardly for a moment before I fold them in my lap, as my cheeks burn like they’re on fire.

He arches a brow. “Are you alright?”

Unable to speak through my embarrassment, I nod.

He carries me like I’m some delicate noble lady in a ballgown and not a bedraggled café girl with mud-splattered skirts and damp hair plastered to her face.

It’s been a long time since anyone carried me. I almost forgot what it was like to feel taken care of in this way.

We walk in silence, my heart tripping over itself with every step. The streets change as we go, with houses becoming larger, windows brighter, fences trimmed with silver ivy.

I don’t think I’ve ever been to this part of Oakvale.

Eventually, we stop before a tall, ornate gate wrought from iron and etched with elegant curling runes and hinges that shimmer faintly with moonstone.

I stare at it, gaping. “Where are we?”

“My cottage.”

My jaw hangs open as I take in the massive structure beyond the gate. “This is your cottage ?”

He glances down at me as though I’ve gone soft in the head, and then opens the gate with a graceful wave of his hand. “Yes.”