Instead she polished off the mound of food while he efficiently added logs to the fire she’d started when she’d first arrived at the cabin.
Setting aside the empty plate, Sally covertly watched as Roke straightened and wiped his hands on his jeans.
As always his dark, brooding beauty was like a punch to her gut.
The clean, perfect lines of his male profile.
The rich luster of his dark hair.
The sculpted hardness of his body.
“What about you?” she asked before she could halt the words.
Turning, he studied her with his piercing silver gaze. “I have no craving for apple pie.”
The air prickled with the smoldering awareness that never truly went away.
“If you need to feed—”
“Are you offering?” he overrode her words, his voice rough.
A shudder of eagerness shook her body at the thought of his fangs sinking deep into her flesh, her blood heating as if preparing to feed her mate.
The sheer intensity of her reaction made her shake her head in horrified denial.
“Of course not.”
His jaw tightened at her blunt refusal.
“Don’t worry, little witch, as I said earlier, as much as I hunger for the taste of you, I’m not going to risk making this permanent.”
Ridiculously, Sally was instantly offended by his equally blunt response.
“Good,” she snapped. “Because I can’t think of a worse fate.”
Roke swallowed a growl as he watched Sally surge to her feet and jerkily move across the room.
The woman was a menace.
One minute she was looking at him as if she wanted him to devour her and the next she was acting as if he’d crawled from beneath a rock.
Was it any wonder he didn’t know if he wanted to shake some sense into her or jerk her off her feet and wrap those slender legs around his waist so he could plunge deep into her body?
Still seething, he frowned in confusion when she came to a halt in front of a blank wall. It was only when he noticed the charred darkness that marred the wood that he was struck by a sudden pang of regret.
“Damn.” He shoved frustrated fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”
“Think about what?”
“This cottage holds nothing but nightmares for you.” He grimaced. “It’s no wonder you can’t relax.”
She slowly turned, her expression oddly puzzled.
“You’re right, I can’t relax,” she muttered. “But, it’s not the memories that bother me.”
He stiffened, assuming she was once again insulting him. It was, after all, her favorite pastime.
“I’m not leaving.”
She absently shook her head. “For once, it’s not you either.”
He moved to stand directly in front of her. “Tell me.”
“I am . . .” She struggled for the words. “Not really sure.”
He placed a hand on her forehead, sensing her barely leashed unease.
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Talk to me, Sally,” he urged.
“It’s difficult to explain.” She furrowed her brow. “I didn’t even realize I was being affected until you said something.”
He tensed, his senses on full alert as he caught the scent of her subtle fear.
“Affected how?”
“It feels like there’s been a change in the air.” Her fingers absently stroked the mating mark that he’d exposed when he’d shoved up her sleeve. It was a habit he’d formed himself. Comfort? Confusion? Usually it was a combination of both. “Something that’s nagging at me.”
He forced himself to concentrate on her concern. “How do you feel it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Is it a taste, a sound, a premonition?”
“Oh.” She considered. “It’s magic,” she at last concluded.
He grimaced.
Of course it was.
“Your magic?”
“No.” The denial was emphatic. “It’s not human.”
Roke glanced toward the window, allowing his powers to flow outward. He could pick up a few distant water sprites and an even more distant pack of hellhounds, but none of them were close enough to disturb Sally with their magic.
So what could be . . .
The answer struck without warning.
“Fey?” he demanded.
Sally was too intelligent not to instantly follow his train of thoughts.
“You think it might be the box?”
“When did you start to feel the change? Before or after the spell was broken?”
She chewed her bottom lip, silently searching her memory.
“After,” she finally pronounced. Roke whirled away, headed for the bedroom. “Hey, where you going?”
“To get the box.”
She was directly behind him as he reached the bed and plucked the box off the quilt.
“Do you think it might be dangerous?”
He wasn’t idiotic enough to admit he thought anything to do with magic was dangerous.
He’d already made his opinion of witches painfully clear when they first met.
Now wasn’t the time to remind her of his initial prejudices.
“I think that if you can feel the magic, then so can others,” he said. “Thankfully this place is isolated enough that it shouldn’t attract too much attention.”
“We could toss it off the cliff.”
He met her worried gaze. “I have a nasty suspicion it would find a way back to you.”
She shivered, clearly considering the perfectly logical tactic of running the hell away, before calling on that remarkable courage that alternately impressed and infuriated him.
“I suppose I could try to put a dampening spell around it,” she suggested.
“That might help.” He studied her pale face. “Do you have what you need?”
She gave a slow nod. “I think so. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
In silence they made their way through the cottage, Roke stepping aside as she began bustling around the large room, with an efficiency that spoke of years of practice. Soon she had a small chalice filled with dried herbs and strange ingredients. She filled a second chalice with a potion she pulled from one of the cupboards then took both to the center of the circle.
Next she gathered a dozen candles, carefully spacing them around the circle before she walked toward him and held out her hand.
Reluctantly he handed over the box.
It wasn’t just his dislike for magic that made him edgy. He understood that it was necessary to try to muffle the fey magic.