Page 55 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

“You flooded the apothecary?”

“Yes.”

“But…why? He’d never have the gall to bother you again. Not after tonight.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t really think I’d let you walk home alone with him, did you?”

“Yes?” She was too tired to lie or even wonder if she ought to.

Ethan’s brows, already dark and menacing, lowered. “We’re going to talk about that later.”

“We are?”

“Yes. But first, why are you sleeping on the bloody floor?”

She refused to be embarrassed. “My hip is not up to climbing at the moment,” she said evenly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Why do you live in a house at the top of the steepest hill in the village with a bedroom at the top of a narrow set of stairs?” Ethan asked, sounding truly angry for the first time since she had met him. And that included the time she had stabbed him with his own fork.

Briar blinked up at him. “It’s home.”

“Well, you’re not sleeping there.”

“This rug is perfectly comfortable. I braided it myself.” She felt a little ridiculous, like Cinderella to his Prince Charming. Only he wasn’t a prince. Nor was he charming. He would be the dragon in every fairy story.

“No.”

She frowned. “That is not an answer, because I did not ask you a question. Neither did I ask for your permission.” She could barely keep her eyelids open. Even her bones were weary. She may as well have been made of mist and dandelion fluff. “Go away, Mr. Swansea. I’m tired.”

He crouched next to her, eyes glittering, jaw sharp. “Stop calling me that,” he growled.

She sighed. “Mr. Dragon, then.”

“Ethan.”

“Certainly not.” She didn’t know why that should scandalize her after everything else.

“We’ll discuss it later. But you’re not sleeping there,” he said again.

He slid his arms under her and lifted her up. Her eyes popped open, but only briefly. “What are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed, little thorn.”

“Why?”

“Because someone should.” His touch was gentle. His expression was not.

He carried her down the hall and up the staircase as though this was all perfectly normal. As though he wasn’t an infamous Iron Crow who made seasoned Keepers blanch and other thieves tremble. As though she wasn’t a witch who made tea and grew roses.

She didn’t even have it in her to argue.

“Don’t murder me,” she mumbled. “I’m too tired for that.”