Page 6 of The Witch’s Shifter (Season of the Witch #3)

Aurora

THE MAN HAS BEEN ON the couch for two days, but he’s still not woken.

I’ve dribbled water into his mouth and have pressed cloths to his forehead, but his fever has not yet broken, and I’m worried.

Maybe we should’ve taken him to Niamh after all.

But those wounds... I’m not sure it’s safe even now to transport him such a distance.

Rowan and Alden have been taking turns watching the man overnight.

I’m not convinced it’s necessary, but it makes them feel better, and I’ll admit I do like knowing someone is keeping an eye on him—more for his sake than anything.

They both look so tired though, and despite having other responsibilities, they refuse to leave me alone in the cottage with the man.

Did I make a bad choice in bringing him here?

I finish pouring two cups of licorice-marshmallow tea, then carry them into the parlor, where Alden is sitting in the chair by the window, reading a book.

The man is fast asleep, a light sheen of sweat gleaming on his forehead in the sunlight.

His breathing is deep and easy, but his eyes remain closed.

Handing Alden a steaming cup of tea, I let out a sigh. “I’m so sorry about this,” I say as I stand over him, fingers wrapped around my warm mug. He puts his book down and pats his knee, and I ease into his lap.

“Don’t be sorry.” Gently, he pushes my hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. “You’ve got a kind heart and a gentle soul. That’s something to be proud of, little witch.”

“But your work at the Golden Lantern—”

“Can wait. I wrote Mrs. Bluewren yesterday and sent the letter with Harry; she’ll understand. And besides...” He wraps his arm around my waist, his fingertips brushing my round belly, holding me close. “This is more important.”

Nodding, I lean against him, breathing in his familiar woodsy scent. We sip our tea quietly, listening to the crackle of the fire and the wind as it brushes the windowpanes.

A short time later, after we’ve finished our tea and I’ve moved to the rocking chair to work on the mittens I’m mending, Alden stands and stretches his arms over his head.

“Fire’s almost out.” He nods to the log rack sitting beside the hearth. “Need more wood.” Slowly, his gaze slides to the man, who still hasn’t moved. Then his eyes find me. “You going to be okay if I step out for a moment?”

Putting my knitting down, I cock an eyebrow at him. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine . Go take a walkabout. The fresh air would do you good.”

“If he moves—”

“He’s not going anywhere,” I assure him. “Now go, stretch your legs.”

“I’ll grab some wood and be back in a moment.”

“No need to rush.” With a smile, I pick my knitting back up, and Alden finally heads for the door, albeit reluctantly. Once he’s gone and the door has closed behind him, I drop my smile and lower my knitting again. My eyes find the man.

He’s still sweating, still hasn’t moved. If he doesn’t improve shortly, I’ll have to ask one of the men to walk into the village and see if Niamh will make the journey to the cottage. I know my fair share of remedies and healing modalities, but this may be more than I can handle.

With a sigh, I stand from my chair and put the knitting away.

Then I go to the man’s side and place my hand upon his brow.

Still hot. There’s a bowl of water on the table beside the couch, a cloth draped over the edge.

I dip it into the water, wring out the excess, and then begin blotting the sweat from his umber cheeks.

“What happened to you?” I whisper, gaze drifting across the fresh bandages I applied just last night. The wounds were still open, but thankfully, they showed no signs of infection. That, at least, put me somewhat at ease.

As I shift the cloth to the man’s brow, his closed eyes twitch.

And then he opens them.

My breath catches.

Just like in his wolf form, his eyes are a brilliant blue. They’re rich like sapphires, with lighter flecks that remind me of ice upon a lake in late winter. His pupils are impossibly black, and they narrow as his eyes adjust to the golden sunlight filling the room.

I’m still frozen, damp cloth held against his forehead. But I’m not sure he even notices. His gaze remains fixed on my face, and I try not to flinch when he lifts his hand toward me. His fingertips are like fire upon my skin when they skate across my cheek.

“It’s you,” he whispers.

Me?

I want to ask him what he means, who he is, why he’s here.

But before I can get a single word out, his eyelids start to droop, and his hand sinks slowly back to his side. Then, with a deep breath, he falls asleep once more.

I’m still sitting beside the couch, frozen, when Alden’s boots thump up the front porch steps. He won’t be happy to see me lingering so close to the man.

Draping the cloth back over the edge of the bowl, I quickly stand and meet Alden in the foyer just as he’s pushing the door closed with his boot.

“Everything okay?” he asks as I take a few logs from his arms.

I give him a small smile. “Everything’s fine.”

We return to the parlor to fill the firewood rack and feed the fire, and the blue-eyed man doesn’t move again.

But the question remains: Who does he think I am?