Page 20 of Spellbound & Speechless (Witches of Starbrook #2)

Aspen

The sun shines into our spacious kitchen as I stand near the stove, chopping sweet potatoes. Autumn is here. Everyone, whether witch or otherwise, knows what that means.

It’s soup season!

Cooking is like a graceful harmony. I may not be as talented as Maple, but Mom taught me how to cook, and I lived alone long enough to learn a thing or two on my own. Takeout was a staple when I was in New York, but the best treat was when I cooked for myself in my little apartment.

Cutting up the sweet potatoes is the hardest part of the recipe. What they make up for in vitamins, they lack in chop-ability… or maybe I’m not as talented in the kitchen as I thought.

I don’t dare touch Maple’s sharpest knives. The last thing I need is to face her wrath. She may not seem like the type to get angry, but no one wants to be on her bad side.

This knife should be able to do the job, anyway. I jam the silver blade into the hard potato and apply pressure, squinting as I force my way through the tough, orange vegetable .

I inhale and remove the knife. Another forceful chop. And another. And?—

“Ah!” I bite my tongue to keep a curse from flowing past my lips, but as the sting hits me, it’s harder to hold back. “Mother… mother lover…”

The orange of the potato mixes with the red of my blood. I step away, eyes wide, as I desperately search for a clean towel. Heavy footsteps run toward the kitchen, but I pay no mind, grabbing a paper towel and pressing it to my finger.

Grimoire… where is the grimoire? I can try a healing spell, in a pinch. I think Maple is watching the grimoire right now, but… where is she?

I don’t get to yell her name before firm hands grab my shoulders and icy eyes peer into mine. “Are you hurt?”

My brows furrow. “Mac, I’m?—”

“Who did it?”

A sly smile plays on my lips, and I push closer. “Someone lovely and talented, but not so talented with her knife skills.”

He blinks. “What are you saying?”

“Me.” I lift my hand, showing him the cut. Blood is still dripping from the wound, but it’s not that deep. “I did it. It’s nothing—just a kitchen accident. It happens to even the best kitchen witch, and I am certainly not the best.”

He exhales through his nose, his eyes closing. “Let me take care of it.”

“I was going to use a healing spell, but I don’t know where Maple is?—”

“Please.” His eyes fling open, meeting mine with urgency. “Let me take care of you.”

The words soothe something in me, warming me to my core. He sounds, well, protective. I guess he always has been, but the feeling of safety is especially present when he guides me to our shared room.

Adrenaline and desire dance together. Goddess, I want him.

I swallow. “O-okay.”

We sit down on the edge of my bed, and he rummages around until he finds a first-aid kit—a sizable one.

“I guess you came prepared,” I say.

Should I be teasing when his large kit may save my precious finger? Probably not.

He shoots me a withering look. “I always come prepared. I’m on a dangerous mission. Never thought you would be the most dangerous thing, but between your driving and your cooking…”

“Hey! My cooking is good—spectacular, even. You won’t get to experience it now that I’m bleeding out, but…” I trail off.

His brows furrow, his lips parted as he cleans me up with a disinfecting potion.

Not homemade, the same potion that most people buy at any old pharmacy.

It will have to do. It stings, but I sit still through the pain.

For the first time in a while, it’s easy to let someone else take care of me, if only for a moment.

After this, everything will return to normal. He’ll put me at arm’s length again.

I don’t care. I want to steal these moments and hold them close to my chest—anything to keep him on my side.

He applies pressure to the wound, and it feels an awful lot like he’s avoiding my gaze. “You’re lucky. I don’t think it needs stitches.”

“No?”

He shakes his head. “We just need to keep it clean. You’re doing a good job.”

His words are too close to praise, even though they’re still far away. Praise from Mac. It’s unbelievable. My brain fizzes into nothing.

“Um…” I’ve never had trouble coming up with retorts, usually in more pressure-filled situations than these, but nothing comes to mind now. Mac saying I’m good is nothing, but the words go between my legs, and a slight, needy pulse awakens. “Thank you. Where did you learn to do this?”

He snorts. “Anyone can do this.”

“I can’t. Not without magic. Maybe it says more about me than it does you.”

He presses his lips together. “I wanted to be a doctor when I was younger. It’s the same part of me that wanted to save my dad, I think.”

“What?” I blink. “I didn’t know that.”

I can’t imagine Mac as a doctor, but I try. Maybe he would have been a different version of himself. Doctor Mackenzie Roth. It has a ring to it, I suppose.

“That was over a decade ago, at this point.” He shrugs. “I dropped out two years into my biology degree. Realistically, I would have ended up being an EMT, or something like that. I couldn’t afford med school. It was just a… a senseless dream.”

“Dreams are never senseless.” I tilt my head to the side, focusing on his face rather than the sting of my wound. “Why did you drop out?”

“Because I got distracted.” He glances up, finally looking at me. “Chasing corrupt witches and all that.”

“Right. I guess that would take up most of your time. Would you ever want to go back?”

“Don’t think so. I wouldn’t know how, even if I wanted to. ”

“Oh, I think it would be easy.” My eyes sparkle. “You’re good with patients. You have superb bedside manner.”

“Only with you.” He looks down, and his cheeks are darker—just a fraction, but it’s a change, and another thing that sends my pulse racing wildly. “The other patients would hate me, I think.”

“Everyone loves a hot doctor.”

“Shut up,” he mutters. Despite the harsh words, he’s fighting off a smile.

Mac bandages my finger, and I dare to look this time. The bleeding seems to have slowed.

“What are the orders, doc?”

“I’ll change it for you tonight,” he says. “Keep it dry and clean until then. It will heal fast, even without magic.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me.” He’s still holding my hand, and I don’t want to pull it away. I don’t want to break the spell.

“I feel like I have a lot to thank you for.” I move forward—it’s like a magnet pulls me to him. “You’ve been keeping me safe since I came back to town, haven’t you?”

He nods.

“Why?” I ask.

A simple question, a single word, settles between us like a wall. Silence creeps up, solidifying the barrier between us, and I wonder if I should have said anything. Perhaps the answer is too obvious.

He’s just keeping all of us safe, but I’m the most accident-prone, I suppose.

“You know why,” he whispers harshly. “Don’t make me say it.”

I don’t, not on a level I can put into words. There’s a more profound feeling, an inner knowing, but I can’t quite grasp it. It’s as if the magic is beyond my reach, confounding me as much as astral magic does.

My mouth opens, and I prepare to ask what he means, but the words don’t come. He’s close enough for me to count his long, dark lashes. I can dive into the ocean of his eyes, but would he let me in?

His lips part, but I don’t think it’s to speak. There’s desperation behind his gaze. I don’t know if he’s begging me to kiss him or run, but I can’t keep running. I ran from what I cared about for so long. I won’t do it again.

I close the space. My lips barely brush against his, just to test the waters and invite him in with me. Last time, he turned me down, and I expect him to do it again.

He doesn’t. His lips part against mine, his tongue delving in to taste me. A moan reverberates between us, and I don’t know if it’s his or mine.

Mac pulls back long enough to suck in a quick breath, and his mouth is on mine once more. Devouring.

I grip his shirt to keep him close.

Don’t go. Don’t run. Love me.

His strong fingers curl into my hair, keeping my face close. I push against his chest, guiding him down onto the bed, one of my legs slinging over to straddle him. His moan isn’t a moan anymore—he growls, his teeth scraping against my lower lip.

I rock into him. His hard bulge presses against my core. Energy awakens, a soft, affectionate vibe settling around us. It’s a sort of magic I haven’t felt in a while, and I crave it. I need it like I need water. It gives me life.

His fingers dig into my hips before I can bask in the magic we’re creating, before I can get a proper taste of him.

Oh, he’s making me hate him again. All I want is one taste, to push my tongue into his mouth the way he did mine, but Mac won’t give it to me.

He’s in the habit of denying us what we so badly want.

I may have doubted it before, but now I know he wants me. Knowing that does little to erase the questions in my mind, starting with… why? Why won’t he take what he wants when I offer it on a silver platter?

He pulls away, and I gasp.

His eyes grow wild and wide. “I have to go.”

“What?” I tumble onto my back as he moves to his feet. I grip the bedsheets, my knuckles going white. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a full moon. I can’t.”

Why does that matter? Sure, werewolves have trouble controlling their transformations during a full moon, but most take potions. It makes no sense for him to bring it up in this context.

Or maybe I’m lust-addled, too shaken to put the pieces together. He says it as if it makes all the sense in the world, and I feel silly for needing to question him.

“What does that?—”

Before I can finish the question, he’s sprinting from the room. All I can see is his mussed curls and his dark T-shirt as he disappears, slamming the door behind him.

“—mean?”