• ON AN ISLE IN CORYNTHIA, THE COLD SEA
Rafel lay between waking moments. He slept the first night from when he was dropped on the island two days straight. His yawn was babyish and loud as he stretched awake on the third day. It was dawn: the skies faint lapis and cockatoos tweeting in high willow branches. Rafel blinked to find a squirrel at his feet. Little eyes like brown glass studied the young man in the heavy quilt.
Rafel tried to shoo, but the animal hopped on the duvet and continued staring.
Since when did squirrels of the forest become like pigeons of the Capitol; striding brazenly through the streets, side by side with man?
The rodent's interest seemed more piqued by his obvious naivete, and Rafel quickly wiped the shock off his face. As he brought a hand up to his face, a light sweat came off with it. Fever? Rafel sighed and dropped his hand. He looked around, for the first time noticing his quaint surrounding. He was in a large cabin.
It was one wide, tapering structure, with bedroom, dining area, and entertaining quarters in the same vast space. There was no partition of curtains, and the only door was the one in front.
It had many windows though—which was good. The cool morning breeze was a salve to his burning skin. Rafel felt like he'd run a marathon over the boiling crater of a volcano. His teeth rattled if he breathed too hard. That bastard, Mephistopheles had really done a number on him; stabbing him with a fucking lightning bolt. Hell!
—and Cora. Aye, Corazón?
Rafel did not want to think of her and instead, thought of the singing birds and the rushing water of a creek nearby. At least, his paranormal [Abilities] weren't muddled, or worse—gone. He tried to sit up in the spring bed but fell flat on his back. The thick blanket wrapped him like a swaddler, and someone had covered his chest injury in soft white bandage strips.
'I look like a fucking mummy! Fuck that bastard, Meph. I'll find him. I'll kill—'
"Ouch! Fuck." He cursed aloud. His exertion had strained his ribs. Even the slightest movement felt like concrete blocks over his chest. His would was near fatal. Rafel tried to be strong, but the pain was too great.
He fell back on the pillows and grinded his teeth hard. He hated being weak.
He hated it with every blood cell within him.
He saw the door was slightly ajar but couldn't rise to it. He settled with listening to the nature sounds filtering into the cabin—and ignoring the idle squirrel whose staring now bothered on pestering. Rafel made faces at it, and the tiny rodent drew even closer. It's furry face went comical. 'Yeah right, laugh at me. Go on!
I, Champion of Hel can't even chase a bothersome rat.'
.is bone broth!" She pronounced.
"Ugh!" Rafel's head fell back.
"Hey!" Sekhmet was giggling now. "It's the only thing that'll help you recover! But after, when you're strong enough. . . we'll see."
Rafel's amber pupils rounded at the sultry trail her voice took.
. . .when you're strong enough. . .we'll see.
'I'm strong enough now!' he wanted to yell. 'Place your hand there—you'll see.'
"Rest, Apollyon. I'm not going anywhere."
Sekhmet smiled knowingly, patting his forehead dry with the napkin and pulling the quilt up to his neck. "There you go; snug and warm." She rose to edge toward the fireplace completely on the other end of the cabin. She added kindling and logs, and flames licked at the hanging pot. In moments, she had the broth going, steamed in myrrh leaves and hot peppery spices.
Rafel didn't close his eyes immediately. Oh no, he didn't.
He let it wander to the full ripples of her pleated skirt, the simplicity of the country cotton, but the sensuous way her exotic figure swayed this way and that in it. Her immaculate apron was tied in a cute bow behind, by the dip in her small waist. Her hips flared out. And when she bent to stir. . .
"Oh, lord!" Rafel guffawed.
Her butt didn't need his proactive mind. It pushed out through her wear; he could see ass cheeks move, their supple outline command the island wind to glue the cotton to each ripe mound, caressing and dipping gently in between. And his hands itched to grope. To weigh. To fondle and jiggle and spank.
The gods of the Underworld were good to him: keeping him alive and delivering such a wonderful, ash haired forest witch to cuddle him back to health.
Ordinary luck couldn't match this—ever.
Rafel relaxed back for the tempting view until sleep would claim him. It was the first time his mood was raised since the Titans Landing, and he smiled wide. 'Let the great nursing begin.'