Wild is the Witch (26)

“I didn’t see you throw anything,” Pike says.

“You were a little preoccupied.”

“I would have noticed if you’d thrown a rock,” he insists. I see him working through it in his mind, over and over, but it never quite makes sense. He frowns.

“You were facedown in the dirt when I did it,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Cut yourself a little slack.”

He doesn’t reply, and a knot forms in my stomach, seeing how disoriented he is. I want to tell him he’s right, that he can trust what he saw, but I don’t dare. “You know, a ‘thank you for saving my life’ might be nice,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “I could have held my own.”

“You tripped getting out of your tent, Pike. You were starting at a pretty significant disadvantage.”

The faintest shade of pink colors his cheeks, and if it were anyone else, I would find it adorable.

“For the record, that’s never happened before.”

“Well, I’m glad I got to see it.”

He laughs and shakes his head, then runs a hand through his hair. He starts to relax, and as he does, my heart begins to slow. Maybe he doesn’t suspect anything. Maybe whatever questions he had have already left his mind and I didn’t give anything away.

“At least let me redeem myself by making breakfast?”

I don’t want to have breakfast. I want to get on the trail and find the owl, capture it, and bring it back to the refuge. But Pike just face-planted in front of me before almost being attacked by a cougar, so I feel like I owe it to him.

“Sure, breakfast would be great.”

He looks relieved, and he heads back to his tent and grabs the cooler. I watch him, embarrassment pushing his shoulders in and tipping his head down slightly. The blush is receding from his cheeks, but he looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen him.

“What?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.

I clear my throat and quickly look away. “Nothing. I’m going to take a quick walk while you’re making breakfast.” I head into the trees without waiting for a reply, trying to ignore the way my eyes wanted to stay on him, trying to ignore the way embarrassment turned him into a softer version of himself.

I start to feel sick, a wave of nausea rolling through me as I walk. We haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours, and I’ve already had to use magic in front of him.

I tell myself that his embarrassment will overshadow anything else, that he won’t be able to remember his questions through the fog of his bruised ego. And even if that isn’t true, he didn’t see anything because there wasn’t anything to see.

I inhale and let the crisp morning air fill my lungs. This was just a bump along the way, and it will be smooth from here on out. It has to be.

Pike calls my name, and I give myself one more long breath before meeting him back at the campsite. He presents me with a plate of biscuits and gravy, and now that it’s in front of me, I realize how hungry I am.

I sit down on the tarp, and he gives me a fork, his hands dirty and scratched from his fall. I set my breakfast aside and scoot closer to him.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

He follows my eyes and turns his hands over, so they’re palm up. The way he’s showing me instead of hiding eases something in my chest.

“My pride hurts more than anything else,” he says.

“I suspect that will take some time to heal. But at least let me help with your hands.”

“They’re fine,” he says, but I’m already up, searching in my pack for the first aid kit. Once I find it, I grab my water bottle and a clean T-shirt.

I bring it all back to the tarp and sit down in front of him with my legs crossed. Without saying anything, he holds out his hands to me. I pour some water over both of his palms to clean off the dirt, pat them dry with the shirt, then tear open an antiseptic wipe.

“This is going to sting,” I say. I take his hand in mine and go over the cuts with the towelette. He takes a sharp breath, and I lift his hand close to my mouth, gently blowing on his palm to ease the pain. I feel him watching me, but I don’t meet his eyes. Then we switch hands and do it again.

His skin is warm and rough, and when I finish cleaning his cuts, he doesn’t move right away. He looks at me with an odd expression, almost as if he’s studying me, and for some reason, I find it hard to breathe. I sit as still as possible, even when the wind blows my hair in front of my face and my napkin jumps across the tarp. Then he seems to realize that his hand is still in mine because he slowly pulls it away and clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says.

I blink a few times, bringing myself back to the present, erasing whatever it was that passed between us. Nothing. It was nothing. “No problem.”

I put the first aid kit away in my tent, and after giving myself a few minutes to regain my composure, I rejoin Pike on the tarp. We eat our breakfast in relative silence, listening to the sounds of the morning birds and the rushing river as it winds beneath the trees. It’s peaceful and calm, and I wish I could enjoy it more, wish I could breathe it in and know that the only thing required of me in this moment is to be.

Just be.

But instead, my mind is restless, anxious to find the owl and get this whole thing over with.

“What are you thinking about?” Pike asks, looking at me over his glasses.