by Michele Hauf
Flashing a look upward he listened but didn’t hear her stir. Once in the bathroom he intended to veer toward the toilet but he had to stop and take it in. Had he stepped into a Moroccan palace? A princess’s hideaway? Tiles painted in jewel tones danced under his bare feet and traveled halfway up the walls. The upper half of the walls was painted a deep maroon and stenciled with elaborate gold arabesques. Fixtures gleamed gold, and the morning sunlight danced in the cut-glass panes that hugged the back of the room and curved in a half hexagon. The room was nearly the size of the living room and a huge round marble tub mastered the center of it all.
“Like something a mermaid would bathe in.” He smiled at that thought, then wandered over and found the toilet behind a half wall.
While he did his business, he scanned the room. A shower was tucked into a cove behind him, and that was big too. Definitely made for two people. The entire bathroom ceiling was domed and a couple panels were stained glass. It was like a mini cathedral or something. So cool. He could imagine soaking in the tub under that ceiling. Everything was brightly colored and there were fresh flowers everywhere. Totally Mireio. His bubbly, hippie witch.
His witch?
Sure felt like it. He wanted her to be his. But he didn’t expect that one night of sex—amazing, mind-blowing sex—would make her his. Sure, they’d gotten to know one another well these past weeks.
She’d even accepted Peanut.
He flushed the toilet and then washed his hands, noting the tips of his fingers tingled. Stupid numbness. What was that about?
The news about his health was something he wasn’t sure how Mireio would deal with. Hell, he wasn’t dealing with it. He was avoiding it. But he was glad he’d told her about it. Gotten it out there. Now he could push it aside and think about other things. Better things. Because what man who’s been given a death sentence wants to think about his life ending?
He pressed a palm to the doorframe and blew out a heavy breath. He was that man. How could he not think about such a thing? The sentence had been shackled to him with a heavy yoke and he could no more shuck it off than he could have put Peanut up for adoption. This disease lived inside him. And it was doing things to him. Things he couldn’t control.
And it would only get worse.
He shouldn’t do this to Mireio. This was his trail to walk. It would be cruel to spread the misery. But, besides Peanut, she was the best thing that had happened to him. Could he simply enjoy what time he had with her? Would that be fair to her?
It wouldn’t be, but he couldn’t walk away from her. Not now. The witch had gotten inside him. He couldn’t imagine a day without her in his life.
Pushing his fingers back through his hair, he strolled out to the kitchen and poured and drank a glass of water. Then he refilled it and carried it upstairs, where he found a landlocked mermaid witch lying on the bed all smiles and yawns.
“I’m not sure how someone so tiny as you managed to commandeer the bed.” He handed her the glass and she sat up against the pillows and drank. “I almost landed on the floor had I not caught myself.”
“I like to use the whole area.” She swished her legs back and forth over the wrinkled sheet. “What’s the purpose of having a bed if you don’t use it all?”
“I can get behind that.” He sat beside her and flipped a curl of her hair between his fingers and held it to his nose as a mustache. “But didn’t your grandma teach you how to share?”
She laughed. “Sorry. I don’t often have a big strapping man wolf sleeping beside me.”
“I’ll count that as a good thing. No other werewolves before me?”
“Nope. Not that I’m a slouch in the dating department, but you don’t need those details. Nor will I ask for yours. Though I’m guessing you’ve had some gorgeous lovers.”
“What does their appearance have to do with anything?”
“Really? But you’re so handsome.”
He shrugged. “I like women in all shapes, personalities and, apparently, sizes. Tiny is my new favorite flavor.”
“Good. Because I have mastered tiny with a side of curves.”
“I want to devour your curves.” He kissed her breast and sucked in the nipple.
“What time do you have to pick up Peanut?”
“I told Sunday I’d be there before noon. It’s ten now.”
“Then we have plenty of time for a shower and breakfast.” She crawled to the edge of the bed, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. His cock was already hard and her thigh crushed it against his gut.
Pulling the hair from her face and tucking it over her ear, he kissed her. She tasted like him and her fierce magic. “Last night was the closest I’ve ever felt to a woman.”
“Really? Not even with...”
“I told you that was just a couple nights.”
“Yes, but this, between you and me, has only been one night. What made this different from...you know?” Lush lashes dusted over her bright blue eyes.
“Everything. And things I can’t put into words. Do I have to put them into words?”
She shook her head.
“Wait. I can,” he offered. “She was a good time. A good time that gave me my amazing little baby boy. But I didn’t have the time to learn about her and care about her. Nor did I want to. But I believe that baby was meant to be, and I was meant to raise him without his mom. We came together for reasons neither of us may ever realize. A grand-scale kind of thing.”
“The universe was at work, making sure Peanut arrived in this lifetime to be with you.”
“Yeah, I like the way you put it.” He kissed her cheek. “But me and you? I care about you, Mireio. You mean something to me. You are a part of something I can’t really explain either, but I know we came together because we were meant to do something great.”
“Like have fabulous sex?”
“Oh, yeah. So let’s go with it and see where it takes us, yes?”
“I’m all in. It was amazing. And let’s not let it stop. You and me. Shower. Race you!”
And with that, the naked witch took off and ran out of the room. Lars followed close behind, only stopping when he turned to close the glass shower door behind them.
After a long hot shower and two orgasms—or had it been three?—Lars and Mireio finally dried off and got dressed. Standing before the bed, he kissed her and pulled on his shirt. “I have to rush off. Gotta stop by the compound to pick up Peanut. I don’t like to leave him too long with Sunday. Don’t want to take advantage of her kindness.”
“That’s cool. I’m brewing apple ale this afternoon, so I’m headed in to work. Can I bring you supper later?”
“I’d like that.”
He kissed her again and winced as the muscles wrapping his torso tugged.
“How you feeling?” she asked.
“Never better. And I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”
She nodded and Lars made a quick exit. He didn’t groan from the pain that had suddenly wrapped about his hips and torso until he was inside his truck.
Chapter 12
Lars stood before the door to Dean and Sunday’s home, his palm pressed to the white wood siding. Yet he couldn’t feel the warmth of the wall against his skin. His fingers felt dead, lifeless, and his wrist tingled. He shook out his hand fiercely, trying to force the feeling back into it, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He could but ride it out.
Gripping his stomach with the hand he could feel, he winced at the creaking ache in his lower abdomen. When he’d found him on the property, Lars had barely had enough time to tell Dean he had to run up to the house before he’d dashed away to avoid his principal seeing him in pain.
He swore under his breath as he pressed a shoulder to the door and rode out the pain that shivered all over beneath his
skin. Felt like a bad sunburn, on the inside.
“Damn it, this better not get worse,” he muttered.
“What’s getting worse?”
He twisted and there stood Sunday, Peanut propped on her hip and smiling at him. The sneaky cat shifter must have seen him groaning in pain as well as heard what he’d said.
“Nothing. Hey, Peanut.”
“There’s something wrong with you.” Sunday stepped up closer and her blue eyes took him in as her nostrils flared. It was a cat thing. He’d gotten accustomed to her scent so no longer read it as offensive—cats and wolves, you know—but she always did the scenting thing around him. “Oh, great goddess Bastet. I can smell the disease in you. Lars?”
“It’s nothing, Sunday. I don’t know what you think you scent—”
“I have a thing for picking up disease and cancers in people, Lars. Oh, shit, do you have cancer? I didn’t think werewolves—”
“Sunday, please. It’s not cancer. Just...” He blew out a breath and shook his numb hand, thankful that some of the feeling was returning. “I told Dean I’d help him move some hay bales, and he’s waiting for me. But let’s go inside. I’ll tell you what’s up.”
* * *
Mireio was finding it difficult to concentrate on the laundry spell. She’d put too much lavender in the potion and it overwhelmed the hyssop. It was a quick and easy spell to cast a white light over her whenever she wore the clothing. But at this rate, she’d have to start over.
Blowing out a breath, she dumped the mixture outside onto the lawn—right on the brown spot where she suspected the neighborhood rabbits liked to mark their territory—then wandered back inside to the kitchen and the assortment of spell items strewn about the counter.
Measuring out the black sea salt into a clear glass mixing bowl, she paused and leaned forward to catch her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hand.
She’d had amazing sex last night. More orgasms than she could count? Check. World? Rocked.
And her lover was dying.
What the hell?
How was a witch supposed to deal with that? Magic did not enable a witch to bring back the dead. Not unless the witch practiced dark magic and wanted to deal with zombies as a result. But could she heal the dying? Her healing skills were miserable. If she suggested to Lars she wanted to give it a go, would that push him away from her? He did not want to talk about his condition. And she got that.
Yet, they’d grown closer last night. The man was amazing. Like no man she’d ever shared her body with before. He looked at her like she was magic. And he treated her like a princess. And he was kind and so gentle with Peanut. What more could a girl want in a man? She had to keep him.
But if she managed to do so, for how long would that last?
* * *
Lars set aside his work gloves and sat on the bale of hay. The pack rented some acreage to a nearby farmer who used the land to grow wheat and barley, and in turn, all they asked was a few dozen bales of hay. A stack stood four bales high out behind the compound. Dean used it around the compound, and Sunday spread it over her garden in the fall to protect the plants from the harsh winter chill.
Dean had gone inside the house to grab them some water and he returned carrying a thermos. Yet the wolf walked purposely toward Lars, as if something urgent were up. Suddenly feeling as if he were a teen who had pissed off the principal and was waiting for a talking to, Lars stood, hands flexing nervously near his thighs. And Dean grabbed him and pulled him in for a crushing man hug.
Ah hell.
“Sunday told me,” Dean said. He slapped Lars’s back a couple times. Stepping away, he studied Lars’s face. “You’re dying?”
“Don’t make a big thing about this, man. It’s—the doc says it’s probably the same thing my father had. You weren’t here when he died. It took him...quickly.”
“Oh, man, that’s rough. I’m so sorry. Whatever you need, you know you just have to ask. Sunday and I are here for you.”
“Thanks, but uh, I’m good.” And it felt too awkward between them right now. He wasn’t a feeble thing. He was still strong and could toss around hay bales as if they were Lego blocks. “Don’t tell the other pack members.”
“I won’t. I’ll be cool. Just want you to know I got your back, man.”
“I’ll let you know if I need anything. I should get Peanut home. I have a lot to do this afternoon. You good here?”
“Of course! Next time tell me if you’re not feeling well. I never should have asked—”
Lars gripped Dean by the shoulder, tightly. “I’m capable. I am not an invalid. So don’t treat me like one. Okay?”
“Got it.” Dean slapped his bicep. “Thanks for the help.”
Lars wandered up to the house and made quick work of packing up Peanut. He sensed Sunday hung back, probably feeling as though she’d done something wrong by telling Dean. Good. He didn’t want to talk to her. To have to fit himself into the mold of “dying.”
He didn’t plan to die. He planned to live every day until his last breath.
* * *
He wasn’t as mad at the wood he was chopping today. Mostly. Still tracing a bit of anger over Sunday having told Dean he was dying, Lars brought down the ax on the head of a pine log and crisply split the column in two. He gripped one half and split it again.
Out of the corner of his vision he saw a flash of pink, and for a second Lars thought his vision was starting to blur. A problem that was showing up more often lately. Was blindness in his future? Had his father suffered such? He couldn’t recall. He’d been young and had spent his days playing with the other pack wolves with no concern for how his father had actually felt.
He brought the ax down with a forceful grunt. The pink lingered in his peripheral vision. What next? Had Sunday returned to check on him? He should have been more clear with her regarding not treating him like an invalid, as he had been with Dean.
“Hey!”
At the shout, he startled and whipped around to find it was not failing vision but rather a particularly tasty witch dressed in a short pink skirt, white lacy ankle socks and black high heels, and a tight T-shirt that said Mermaids Like to Get Wet stretched across her ample bosom.
“Whew! You surprised me.”
“I guessed that from the way you swung around with an ax aimed at me.”
He looked at the weapon, still hoisted high in readiness for defense, then set it down by the tree stump.
“Sorry,” she said. “I should have expected that. You were in the zone. The cutting zone, or whatever you call it. So what’s that you’re sporting today? A man bun?”
“A what?” Oh. He shrugged and bobbed his head to test that the hair was still secure and tight at the back of his head. “Keeps it out on my way when I’m working. Man bun?”
“You haven’t heard that term before? You’re working it, let me tell you. Add in the beard and the overalls and ax? Most definitely a lumbersexual.”
“A...? I don’t even want to know.”
“It’s a good thing!”
“Sounds...skanky.”
Her giggle lured him over to kiss her, but she squirmed and swiped a hand down her cheek, which left a dirty streak in its wake. “You’re all sweaty.”
“You don’t like me sweaty?” He rubbed at the dirt smudge he’d left on her cheek but he only managed to make it worse.
“I like you sweaty in my bed, but this is, hmm... You have wood dust all over you and dirt streaking down your chest.”
“Yeah, I got some dirt on your cheek. Why don’t you run in and wipe it off.” He stepped back and picked up the ax, but the handle slipped through his grasp and the heavy metal blade landed right before Mireio’s feet. The witch let out a peep. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to...”
He grabbe
d the wood handle and again couldn’t get a good grip around it. He flexed his fingers, working them in and out, but it was no use.
“Loss of feeling again?” she wondered. “Oh, Lars. What can I do? You should maybe quit for the day and get some—”
“No!” he shouted a little too loudly.
Mireio stepped back from him, clutching the fish purse to her gut. It wasn’t quite fear in her eyes, but concern for sure.
“Don’t do that,” he said with a forceful sweep of his hand between them.
“Do what? I was worried—”
“That,” he said. “I don’t want that from you. None of that—” he waved his hand wildly before him “—feeling sorry crap. I’m fine. It comes and it goes. I need to walk it off. Kick some logs or something.”
At that moment the baby monitor blinked and the rustle of a little body kicking in his crib could be heard.
“I’ll get it!” Mireio rushed out. “You’re right. I’ll leave you to finish up your man stuff here. I brought stew and some bread that needs to go in the oven. I set it on the step before looking for you out back. Come inside in about half an hour?”
He nodded and turned to face the woodpile while she wandered into the house. When he heard her coo over Peanut and pick him up, Lars held back an oath. He’d been mean to her just now. What was wrong with her being concerned for him?
“Everything,” he muttered.
He did not want to be treated like an invalid. By anyone. Such treatment would only make his diagnosis all the more real.
He punched a weak fist into his opposite palm, hoping to feel the pain, but all he got was a brush of his knuckles against skin. He couldn’t even feel the tingle in his fingers now. They felt...dead.
* * *
Setting aside Lars’s anger as just that—a well-deserved reaction to the sudden awful circumstances he’d been forced to face—Mireio put the stewpot on the stove top to warm and slid a pan of dinner rolls in the oven. Soon the cabin smelled like bread, potatoes, rosemary and caramelized carrots.
