Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

WREN

H e's barely broken a sweat by the time he races up to the back door of my shop, Fenn an orange streak behind him, yapping at us both in high distress.

I can't stop giggling, and every time I let out a fresh peal of laughter, Caelan's smile grows and grows.

He finally stops in front of my door, and I try to dislodge myself from his embrace to get my key out.

"Nope," he says. "You're not putting one foot down until we get those boots off and look at the damage you've inflicted on yourself, you stubborn woman."

I let out a little shriek as he easily flips me over one shoulder, a strong arm locking me in place and another digging through the satchel on my back.

When his arm brushes my butt, I let out a little moan.

Caelan stiffens beneath me. "None of that. We will be saving any indulgent activities until after you've been properly cared for."

"What if I want those first ?" I ask, breathless despite the fact I've done absolutely nothing to warrant it.

"Then you will suffer, I suppose," he says grandly.

The key clicks into place, and then I'm being trundled up the stairs to my apartment, which he also unlocks.

"It smells like you in here."

"I hope that's a good thing," I tell him with a laugh. I'm giddy, lighter than ever, maybe due to the fact I'm not actually standing on my poor feet.

"Your scent was the first delicious thing I noticed about you."

My nose wrinkles. "Is that a fae thing?" I'm not sure I want to know what he thinks I smell like.

I don't need any additional things to obsess over.

"Yes." He sets me down carefully on my favorite chair, a slightly threadbare wingback that was my first purchase when I moved here. It creaks as it takes my weight.

Before I can set my feet down again, Caelan's hands are there. The thick leather laces creak as he unties them carefully.

"What?" I ask, still unable to keep the goofy grin from my face. "Why do you look so upset?"

"It smells like Seelie in here."

"Seelie?" I repeat, confused. "I smell like a Seelie fae?"

"No, not you," he says, his lip curling in disgust at the suggestion. "You smell like dark places deep in the earth, like mystery and magic and gold."

"What does mystery smell like?" I ask, intrigued.

"The question you should be asking is why it smells like Seelie." He sniffs, his eyes flaring.

I hunch forward, staring into his eyes. "Are you… jealous?"

"No," he scoffs, but his blue eyes dart to the side.

"Yes, you are," I say, throwing back my head and laughing. "You are jealous of a brownie."

"A brownie? That explains why it smells terrible."

"Terrible?" I ask, choking on a laugh. "How can it smell terrible?"

"Smells like wet dog. You know, I thought they went extinct," he muses. "Brownies, that is. I remember when they got up to more mischief with the Unseelie than they did humans."

His lips turn down and he refocuses on the task at hand, taking my boots off. Something about the way he said it seems sad, and I tilt my head, wondering at him.

"How old are you?" I cringe slightly as soon as the question is out there, wafting between us.

Caelan finishes tugging the boot off, silent as he slowly and gently rolls the sock off my aching foot.

"Time has no meaning in the Underhill," he finally answers, gazing up at me with those haunting blue eyes. "But I've seen the rise and fall of queens and kings on your land over… what must be centuries."

I clear my throat. "Right." It's staggering to think about, so I try not to, instead watching him slide his hands down my foot. His touch is feather-light, and still, I hiss as his fingers find the jagged edge of a raw blister.

"I have salve for it, you don't have to do that?—"

He cuts me off with a stern look, and I nearly laugh at the expression on his face. "I am wooing you."

"This is part of it? Touching my blisters?"

"Believe it or not, Miss Sassy Witch, most fae, Unseelie or otherwise," he grimaces over the word, as if just mentioning the Seelie Court is distasteful, "care for their… would-be partner."

Would-be partner.

I squint at him.

It sounded like he was fishing for that phrase, like that wasn't the one he wanted, not at all.

I heave a sigh, one of relief, as he begins kneading the bottom of my foot with his knuckles, sinking back into the chair.

"What kind of salve is it?" he asks, studying the sore patch of skin on the back of my foot. His forehead creases in concern, and it literally melts any bit of my heart that didn't quite believe he actually likes me.

"It's in the cupboard over there, green jar, lemon balm, comfrey, and pressed walnut oil."

He makes a face. "Comfrey?"

"I made it myself." I shrug one shoulder. "Why? Do you have a secret ancient fae recipe for some mystical unguent that's better?"

"We use comfrey in poisoned arrows," he says archly.

"In high doses, yes, it's toxic, but I'm not purposefully poisoning myself."

"Is there a healer in this backwater town?" he asks.

"The backwater town where you live?" I huff a laugh at his indignant expression. "Yes, there is, but we don't need to bother her for a few blisters, Caelan."

"Are you in pain?"

"Not right now."

"But you were?" he presses, his eyes narrowed as he scrutinizes my face.

"You carried me home," I say, suddenly exasperated with him. "I hardly had the opportunity to be in pain."

"Why are you saying that as if I've deprived you of some noble quest to rub your feet raw?"

"The salve I have will be fine," I mutter mutinously, but he just laughs.

"You deserve the best. Comfrey in some homemade salve is not the best."

"I am a witch! I have healing training!" I cross my arms over my chest petulantly, but he just grins.

"You are a goldsmith and an enchantress of jewelry, and an excellent one at that. You are not a healing witch."

"Fine," I say, genuinely interested in an alternative. The salve I made is fine, sure, but I'm not self-absorbed enough to think there isn't a better salve out there. "What do you suggest?"

He picks up my other foot, slowly unlacing the ties and removing the boot and my sock just as carefully as he did the first.

"Well, for starters, I suggest not wearing these boots until they're broken in, and secondly, I suggest you sit back and relax while I make us lunch, a fire, and a healing salve my mother taught me when I was just a young whip of a thing."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble?—"

"Oh, really," he purrs, leaning close enough that I feel his breath against my lips. "And that's why you bound us together? So you wouldn't put me to any trouble?"

My jaw drops, and I snort in indignation.

Calean leans further forward, and for a split second, I think he's going to kiss me again.

Then he boops my nose with his finger.

"That's what I thought, Wren Tierson."

With that, he gracefully stands and makes himself fully at home in my kitchen and house. It takes him no time at all to build a fire in my hearth, and even less time than I thought possible to whip up some concoction—that smells much better than my comfrey salve—and gently apply it to my heels.

"There," he finally announces, looking beyond pleased with his handiwork. "Now I can fetch us lunch. I assume your larder is as meager as the rest of your supplies?"

"I have been meaning to stock up on some things," I mutter, slightly abashed.

"No, don't look like that, little witch. I know it's hard for you right now, all of this to manage on those slim shoulders with no one to help. I will be back before you know it."

The door closes softly behind him.

I blink, surprised at the one tear that trickles down my cheek at feeling seen by someone for the first time in a very, very long while.