“I tell you what. Let me tape your fingers, and then you can do whatever you want with my hands.” I caress the inside of her wrist with my thumb.
Piper rolls her eyes but obediently stays still.
I open the vanity doors and check the drawers before moving over to a closet full of supplies. I find some tape, bandages, and antibiotic cream hiding behind hand towels.
She rests her butt against the counter, and it’s so much like that night when she had been dripping and shivering that the hairs in the back of my neck stand up. It hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it was an eternity ago.
One of Piper’s broken fingers is the one with her wedding ring. I brush my thumb over the warm gold.
“Is it too tight?” I don’t know what I’m going to do if she says yes. The thought of cutting it off her finger horrifies me.
“It’s okay. It’s not that swollen anymore.”
I make quick work of taping Piper’s fingers. “All set. You’ll be good as new in no time.”
“Your turn,” Piper murmurs. She turns on the water and grabs my hands, gently pulling them beneath the stream. Her fingers are light but diligent as she cleans the cuts on my knuckles. They’re not horrible. I’ve had worse before. The soap stings, but Piper’s touch is so comforting I barely feel it.
She pats my hands dry. Her brow furrows as she leans over to inspect my injuries, turning my hand from side to side. She makes a low hum in her throat and gently dabs on the cream before bandaging the scrapes. I don’t tell her that they’d probably be fine with none of that. It’s nice to have her take care of me. Not that I need someone to baby me or that she owes me. It’s just a different experience to have someone worry.
“All done. You’ll be good as new in no time,” she repeats my words back to me, her sky-blue eyes flicking up to mine. The bathroom is plenty big, but suddenly, it feels like we’re enclosed in a tiny box.
I cup her cheek, my fingers sliding over the edge of her jaw. My thumb strokes over her cheekbone. “Your skin is so soft,” I murmur.
Piper licks her lips, her eyes half-lidded. My gaze is drawn to her mouth, her perfect full lips. What would it be like to kiss her? Just because I haven’t kissed anyone in so damn long. That’s the only reason I want to know. I like Piper. She’s beautiful, and smart. But this thing between us is just an agreement. I’m helping her out. We’re playing a game. How long can I go without fucking someone else?
What Piper doesn’t know is that I’m incredibly stubborn. If it was anyone else, I’d wait her out just so that I can brag that I’ve won in the end. I’m not sure I have the resolve when it comes to Piper.
But kissing her would be incredible.
And disastrous. I should know better.
I sigh and pull my hand free. “We should get some sleep.”
22
PIPER
Woodroot’s Apothecary sits on an island in the middle of the Briar Hollows River. For a long time, it was neutral territory, literally situated directly in between the two covens of Mystic Hollows. Like Fitz, Morty is a witch who never picked a side. He wasn’t a member of the Tenebris or Lumen covens. Anybody could shop at his apothecary. His one rule is that while you’re inside his store, you have to be civil, regardless of what side of the river you live on.
A pedestrian bridge that has seen better days connects Morty’s tiny island to either side of Mystic Hollows. The wooden structure sways when you walk on it, and I love how crossing it feels like a tiny thrill ride. Will it hold firm? Or will a plank of wood disintegrate beneath my foot. I’m sure Morty has it magically fortified, but it gives the illusion of something fragile.
Regardless of the time of day, the apothecary is always lit with a welcoming glow. This morning's weather is gloomy andovercast. It makes me appreciate the golden lights spilling from the windows even more. The weathered wood siding and severe sloping roof lines give the building the look of a medieval cottage in a fairytale. There’s a massive window in front of the store where Morty displays a variety of goods. Most are likely to cause people to turn away rather than go inside. Faint wisps of wood smoke perfume the air. It doesn’t matter what time of year it is, there’s always a fire going.
I head toward the back entrance, but I know the front of the store just as well. The shelves overflow with spell ingredients. Everything from animal bones, bird feathers, dried flowers, to human hair, and teeth. Spells that I’ve helped make line rows of shelves in bottles big and small. Some require an absence of light to hold their potency and are housed in the shop’s many dark corners. Though it looks chaotic from a casual observer’s point of view, Morty knows the location of every item in this place.
I walk in through the back door that leads to what has essentially become my workshop over the years. The smell of cedar smoke greets me, and I’m immediately comforted. I’ve been helping Morty for years. In the beginning, it was mainly as a way to learn how to use my magic. Morty is the best potions maker in Mystic Hollow. Probably in the entire Upper Peninsula.
Once I was old enough, his shop became a haven for me. I could get away, and my father wouldn’t question it because I was bettering my magic. And because it got me out of his hair. Once Tucker became my guardian, he didn’t let me come to Morty’s for several years until I finally broke free and got out on my own. Morty swung his door wide and welcomed me back with open arms.
I used to work here for free. The Beaumont family has a large inheritance. I don’t need extra money. Once I was on my own, Morty insisted that I take profits from the potions and elixirsthat I made. Morty pretends he’s not interested in my wellbeing. He likes to act as though he doesn’t need help, but then he’ll turn around and say he’s stumped on a concoction. He’s far superior at creating drafts and potions than me, so I know it’s a ploy.
I usually come in a few times a week, but I haven’t been by in the past few weeks. Between things with me and Ambrose, and the trials the coven is hosting, I’ve been busy. I feel bad that I’ve left Morty to deal with all of the store’s orders on his own.
As if my thoughts conjure him, Morty pushes through the doors that lead to the front.
“There you are. I was about to send a search party to make sure you were still alive.”
Morty is the most ostentatious–or fabulous–dresser I’ve ever met. Sometimes both. It really depends on who you ask. This morning, despite the early hour, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored red suit with a black button-up shirt underneath. There's a large red tulle puff sticking out of the coat pocket, or maybe pinned to his lapel. It’s hard to tell. He’s wearing a pair of round black glasses, but I suspect they’re just for show, because he rarely wears glasses.
