He spoke of his magic as though it were a living, breathing creature. As though his magic were an entity outside of himself like Octavia’s dragon was to her.
The shifter opened her hand, and the ribbon twisted through her long fingers. It was soft and delicate, utterly unlike the witch who’d broken into her cabin.
Wait.
Octavia sucked in a breath. How could she have forgotten? Flynn wasn’t just a handsome witch with fancy blue magic and a touch that sent tingles through her. He was the too-handsome-for-his-own-good stranger who’d broken into her tiny cabin and rummaged through her things.
Good gods, Octavia, she scolded herself and took a shaky step back.At least try to keep your head on your shoulders.
She had a mission to complete. A delivery to finish. What kind of messenger completely forgot about their task? A bad one. Octavia already had a record of screwing things up. She couldn’t let things get any worse.
Flynn must have noticed the change in her because his eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”
Octavia moved back, and her legs bumped against the bed. She bent, never removing her gaze from the witch, as she grabbed her upturned messenger bag. Sticking her hand inside, she felt around until the cool, smooth edges she sought met her fingertips.
Ashes and smoke, that was close. What would Octavia have done if she lost this? She couldn’t return home to Firefall, that was certain. No one would have her back if she failedthis mission. Then she’d be Octavia Ashbloom, twice failed messenger and eternal reject.
That could not happen. She wouldn’t allow it.
Steeling her face, Octavia released the object and straightened. “What’s wrong is that you’re in my cabin, and I don’t even know you.”
He frowned as though he truly didn’t understand the issue at hand. “I told you, my name’s Flynn, and I’m a witch. What else is there to know?”
There were many things, but Octavia didn’t have time for them. Shaking her head, she grabbed her walking stick. Her chest nearly brushed against Flynn’s as she inched past him towards the door.
How come she hadn’t realized how close they were standing? Was she so starved for any sort of attention that she had abandoned all illusions of common sense? Apparently so.
“It was… interesting to meet you,” Octavia said, unwilling to lie. She’d be willing to bet half her hoard that this handsome witch would haunt her dreams tonight.
“Likewise.” Flynn’s brows furrowed. “Where are you?—”
Choosing escape as the most expedient way out of what was rapidly becoming the strangest—and most titillating—experience of her entire life, Octavia turned and fled toward the open door. “Goodbye.”
She was drenched the moment she stepped foot outside. Had the storm worsened? That was just her luck. Icy water pelted her from above. Curses that would have made any dragon shifter blush poured from Octavia’s mouth as her muscles temporarily seized. If it weren’t for the witch, she could’ve stayed dry. Now, that option was gone.
“Lady Octavia—” Flynn touched her arm, and those familiar sparks returned.
Shocked out of her stupor, Octavia yanked her arm away. “Leave me the hell alone!”
Holding her bag tight against her side with one hand and her walking stick with the other, she ran from Flynn.
Well.
Ran may have been a slight overstatement. Using her cane, she navigated through the wet woods as speedily as she dared. The last thing she needed was to turn her ankle again, force a shift, and fly away. The Elders really would never forgive her if that happened.
With every step on sodden leaves, every leap over small brooks, and every turn around trees, Octavia ran from the witch. She pumped her arms, her heart pounded, and her lungs tightened. This was exhausting and, quite frankly, horrid. Who exercised for fun? Running was awful. Octavia was sure her hip would bruise where the bag slammed into it, but she had to continue.
Once she finished this delivery, things would be different. She was determined to take up a sedentary lifestyle. Her lungs burned like tiny embers had taken up residency within them. Her heart hammered, and her boots were wet.
Was there anything worse than wet feet that squished with every step?
She didn’t think so.
At least the witch was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, he’d gotten the hint—she’d certainly yelled loud enough—and he wouldn’t be back. Still, she cursed that wretched, good-looking witch for forcing her out of her shack.
She’d been running for at least an hour before twilight set in. Night was falling, and she was wet, hungry, and alone in the forest.
Just fucking great.