Free The Sweetest Spell by Suzanne Selfors

age. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. As he cleared his throat, I held perfectly still, hoping he’d go away. “Uh, I saw you close your eyes. I know you’re awake. I’m Owen. Owen Oak.”
    With a shaky exhale, I opened my eyes, peering over the edge of the blanket. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands behind his back. I’m not entirely sure why, but I immediately compared him to Griffin Boar. Maybe it was because they looked the exact same age, with the same soft stubble of beard along the edge of their jaws. But unlike Griffin, this guy wasn’t tall and broad-chested. He wasn’t short, either, just medium-sized and lean. Unlike Griffin, he wasn’t heart-stoppingly handsome. He was nice-looking in an entirely different way, with his dark eyes and high cheekbones. He didn’t sound like Griffin, either. The way he spoke was different, an accent that sounded a bit like Mister Todd, our tax-collector.
    “You’ve been asleep for three days,” he said.
    I frowned. Three days? How was that possible?
    “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to get my book.” He held it up as proof. “This is my room, you see. That’s my bed.”
    His room? His bed? Had he been the one who’d taken off my dress? My face burned.
    “No, it’s not like that,” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong. You’re in my bed because you needed a place to sleep. Not because …” He shuffled. “Well, I’m the one who put you in my bed, that’s true, but only because …” He shuffled again. “Look, I didn’t take your clothes off so don’t worry about that. I mean, I took your boots off, that’s all.”
    I cringed. What was that look on his face? Was it disgust because he’d seen my curled foot? Or was it pity? I wanted no one’s pity. Slowly I sat up, holding the blanket beneath my chin. “You had no right to take off my boots,” I said. Even though my leg ached, I pulled up my knees, tucking my feet as close as possible. “Go away!”
    He scratched the back of his head, looking like a boy who’d been scolded. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just trying to help. I—” He turned toward the window.
    A cow pressed its nostrils against the pane. Owen opened the window and pushed the cow away. “Go on,” he said. “Go out to the field.” As soon as the cow moseyed away, Owen closed the window. “They’ve been doing that since you got here. I don’t know why they keep coming to the window,” he said. “They’ve never done that before. It’s almost as if they’re checking on you.”
    I shrugged, as if it were the oddest thing that a cow should pay attention to me.
    “Owen Oak, what are you doing in here?” An old woman stood holding a tray in the doorway. Her gray dress hung to her ankles, and a wooden spoon stuck out of her apron pocket. Her gaze darted up the blanket and stopped on my face. She took a sharp breath. “You know this room is off-limits, Owen.”
    “I came to get my book. Father won’t let me work so what else am I supposed to do?” He held a hand against his rib cage.
    “I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to let that rib heal. Now get out of here before I tell your mother that you broke another one of her rules.” Still holding the tray, she jabbed Owen with an elbow. “First you break her heart with all that fighting and now you sneak into this room.”
    “How’s a guy supposed to have fun if he can’t break a few rules?” he said with a grin.
    “Out with you,” she said, cocking her head toward the door. “And tell your mother that the dirt-scratcher is awake.” She frowned, tossing another glance my way. Just before leaving, Owen nodded at me. I pretended not to have noticed.
    The old woman crossed the room and set the tray on the bedside table with a loud
clunk.
Then she tucked a loose strand of silver-streaked hair into the tight knot at the back of her head. “Guess you can feed yourself now that you’re awake.”