Possessing the Witch. Elle James
Each time he was coherent enough to realize his body’s metamorphosis, he fought the change. A gentle but firm voice led him through the darkness, each time bringing him back from that place so primal and dangerous that he feared he’d go there and never return.
In a burst of pain his body stretched, flexed and altered, his lion surfacing, ready for battle. But an angel’s voice cut through his confusion, through the instinct driving him to lash out against the source of his suffering.
Once his eyes opened and he thought he saw a brown-haired beauty hovering over him. A halo of light surrounded her head. A dark angel there to drag his sorry ass back from the grave. She dabbed something cool and moist across his brow, whispering assurances to him. Then she pressed a glob of thick, oozing paste into the angry wound on his shoulder, bringing him fully awake and off the bed. The pain stabbed through his muscles and his jaw tightened. He could feel the lion fighting to break through. He opened his mouth to yell, but the lion’s roar erupted from his throat, echoing off the walls.
The angel became the devil, glaring at him, her dark eyes flashing. “Shut up and lie down. That’s the second poultice I’ve applied that you’ve shaken off.” She laid her cool hand on his heated, good shoulder and pushed him down onto the pillow.
A wave of nausea washed over him and he let her guide him back to the mattress. As soon as his head hit the pillow, the lion backed off and his human thoughts became clearer. “Why?”
“Why what?” Her hands dug into a stainless steel bowl on the table beside the bed and came up with a glob of greenish-brown mud. “Let’s try this again, and this time don’t sit up, or roar. And most of all try not to kill me, will ya?”
Her words cut through his pain, causing him to clench his teeth and focus on maintaining his humanity. “Why did you help me?”
She laid the poultice over his wound.
He gasped, his fingers clenching the sheets at his sides to avoid lashing out at his angel.
The woman shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone else coming to your rescue.” She adjusted the sheet around his waist and tucked a blanket over him.
For the first time, Gryph realized he was naked. His brows shot up. “My clothes?”
“What’s left of them are in the dryer.” Her lashes swept down over her deep dark eyes, her cheeks reddening. She pushed a long wavy strand of rich brown hair behind her ear. “They smelled like stinky river water. I washed your trousers, but I’m not sure they’ll be fit to be worn.” She looked up, her gaze capturing his.
“Did you...?” He nodded toward the sheets covering his body.
“Undress you?” Her chin tipped upward. “You weren’t lying on my bed in the soaked clothing. And you weren’t cooperating much in a semiconscious state.”
Gryph chuckled, and regretted it immediately as the movement shook his shoulder. Pain sliced through him and he growled.
Her eyes narrowed and he stopped.
“Perhaps you can tell me your name.” She ripped a white sheet in half, then in half again. Her movements were smooth, capable and graceful. Slim flingers made quick work of reducing the sheet into bandages.
Despite his pain, Gryph found himself fascinated by the firm, capable movements of her slender fingers, wondering what they’d feel like running over his naked skin. The animal in him purred.
Her brows rose. “Is it so hard to tell me your name?”
He hesitated. Having spent his young life avoiding answering questions posed by surface dwellers, he still didn’t feel comfortable sharing anything about himself with those above the world he’d grown up in. But something about this woman inspired his confidence. “Gryph.”
She nodded. “Gryph.” On her lips, his name sounded like the music he listened to with Balthazar in the Lair. “I am Selene.”
Her fingers folded the sheet into a neat pad, which she laid gently over his wound. Using white medical adhesive tape, she taped it down firmly, holding the poultice in place.
“What is that foul-smelling stuff you put on me?”
“A poultice my mother used to make when we fell and scraped our knees. Guaranteed to help you heal quickly.”
“Was your mother an angel like you?”
The woman’s lips tipped upward. “She was the angel. I’m not. In case you don’t remember, I cleaned your wound earlier. You were somewhat out of it. But not enough that you didn’t raise a ruckus several times throughout the procedure.”
Gryph cringed, his fists tightening into knots. “Did I say or do anything?”
“You didn’t say anything. You growled and roared.”
She’d only answered half of his question. Gryph’s eyes narrowed.
The woman wouldn’t meet his gaze and she busied herself gathering the bowl and washcloths on the nightstand.
Gryph grabbed her wrist.
The bowl upended and fell to the ground. The woman’s eyes widened.
“What did I do?” His voice came out gravelly and as more of a growl than he’d intended. The flash of fear in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. He dropped her hand.
She stepped back, rubbing at the red marks where his fingers had been.
Gryph sighed. “You didn’t turn me over to the authorities.” He shook his head, staring hard into her eyes. “Why?”
“Should I have?”
“Any surface dweller would have.”
Her brows dipped together. “Surface dweller?” She bent to retrieve the bowl, scooting back out of his reach as soon as she straightened, clutching the bowl to her chest. “What do you mean by surface dweller?”
His lips clamped shut. Damn. He’d said too much. The less this woman knew the better off he was, and the safer the community of souls was who lived far below the hustle and bustle of Chicago in the dark tunnels under the oldest part of the city. The scarred, the unusual, the mutants and the physically and mentally disfigured freaks who slid beneath the surface to live out their lives unnoticed by the beautiful, so-called normal people of the light.
“I should leave.” He pushed to a sitting position and the room spun so fast, he tilted toward the edge of the bed.
The woman was there to catch him, steadying him against her breast. Her tantalizing scent cut through the gray fog consuming him, bringing him back from the edge of unconsciousness.
“You’re not going anywhere in your condition,” she said, her voice firm.
As much as he wanted to remain with his cheek leaning into the softness of her breast, he straightened. “I’ll be fine. I heal fast.” His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears.
“If you let yourself.” She held on to his arm, her gentle fingers urging him toward the pillow.
Too exhausted to fight her, Gryph lay back, the slightest movement shooting pain through his shoulder. The gray fog swirled around his peripheral vision, shadows sneaking up to claim him. He closed his eyes, giving in to the darkness. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”
As if from the bottom of a deep well he heard her answer, “Because I know what it’s like to be different.”
* * *
Selene stayed by his side through what remained of the night. When it came time to open her dress shop above her apartment, she would leave it closed for the day. The man in her bed needed her more than women needed the vintage and whimsical dresses, beautiful, colorful blouses and artistic jewelry her business was known for in the city.
Gryph’s wounds had taken more out of him than he would have admitted.