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Bo

The light creeps underneath my eyelids and threatens to split my brain in two.

I bite back a groan as I throw an arm over my face, trying to hide in the shadows.

My body is experiencing a strange mixture of sensations.

Many parts of me ache and hurt and cling to a queasiness I beg the gods to ease away.

But I also notice how there is a luxuriously soft surface beneath me and an intoxicating scent teasing my nose.

The scent is earthy yet floral, like a rose garden.

If only I could enjoy it without also feeling a sticky film on my tongue and a turmoil in my stomach.

What hell did I go through last night to come out feeling like this?

And as if the question was all that was needed, memories begin coming back to me.

Local Brew.

The first sip of a delicious, fruity drink.

The many more sips of many more delicious, fruity drinks.

A fuzzy sensation of no longer needing to impress anyone.

The need to be loud and have every eye in the vicinity on me.

The need to be seen and acknowledged.

The need to sing.

The need to sing terribly.

Soft, insistent hands on my body.

Strong arms around my waist.

A disappointed scowl on the prettiest face I’d ever seen.

No, not the prettiest. Georgiana is the prettiest.

But then why am I having trouble forming the face of the siren in my mind and I have a clear vision of a certain redheaded witch?

Trying to straighten my thoughts by bringing myself back to the present, reluctantly, I drag my arm away and blink my eyes open, wincing at the natural light spilling in above me.

In truth, the room is not overly bright.

There is simply a skylight above me that lets in the beginning of the morning sun.

I tilt my head to the side and spy floral-wallpapered walls around me.

A bedside table stacked high with books.

A fainting couch that holds a curvaceous witch, who appears to be sleeping more soundly than I was.

Where am I?

And just like before, the moment I think the question, the answer comes to me.

I am in the dragon’s house.

The magically imbued building that decided to torture me for seventeen years.

I jerk upward in bed, gagging at the sloshing in my stomach, but also releasing a gasp of relief when I realize that I have full control over every single one of my limbs.

Even though I stepped over the threshold, I have not been turned into a metal sculpture once more.

Not yet anyway.

Mor must’ve brought me here.

But why?

And why is she asleep on a couch while I am in the most comfortable bed I have ever lain in?

As I drag my legs over to the edge, I eye her slumbering form, most of which I can see since her blanket is bunched by her feet.

Mor is in a matching sleep set, the short shorts revealing the bottom curves of her ample ass.

The exposed skin sets off a tingling in the back of my neck, and I have to swallow for a reason other than nausea.

Her red hair falls in a fiery cascade over her pale shoulders, and the little tank top, which matches her shorts, rides up to show a dip in her back that seems to want a large hand pressing against it.

That’s a ridiculous thought, and I don’t know where it came from.

She’s not snoring, but I can hear her deep breathing.

One more odd aspect of the situation is how relaxed she is, how vulnerable she’s made herself, when she’s in the room with a strange monster.

She doesn’t know me.

She has no reason to trust me.

Maybe she’s naive.

Or maybe she’s so powerful that she doesn’t bother to fear me.

But what I do know is, no matter how upset I am with this town, with this house, with this world, I do not want this witch to be afraid of me.

I especially don’t want her to be upset with me .

As wrecked and as wretched as I feel this morning, a small glimmer of contentment settles in the deepest part of my gut when I realize that Mor not only brought me into her home last night, but also settled me in her bed and now sleeps soundly with me only feet away.

This witch is precious.

And I have the strong urge to protect her.

Which is ridiculous because she has this hell of a house to protect her.

What could she want with me?

Mor lets out a small sigh, and she rolls over on her makeshift bed.

I bite a knuckle to hold back a groan when I spy the swell of her breasts and the sleek curve of her plush mouth.

Has there ever been a more erotic sight than this woman relaxed in sleep?

I was a statue for too long.

I should be ashamed of these thoughts.

Mor deserves better than to be gaped at while she’s unconscious.

I tear my gaze away from her and make to stand from the bed.

But once again—only in a small way this time—the house betrays me.

As my feet press into the floorboards, they give out a loud creak.

And I can’t help thinking that this home wants to wake up the witch before I can escape.

Teeth gritted, I glance back at the fainting couch.

A set of green eyes stares back at me.