Page 7 of This Witch Is Not Wicked

Prince Cillian rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He stood. “Are we done now?”

Eight weeks to completely change my reputation in this city. Godwitches help me. I was doomed.

CHAPTER 2

Nevan

The aroma of rosemary and licorice floated through the air as my current patient sat in front of me, fluttering her eyelashes and holding out her wrist. I studied Emoire’s hand, not sure what kind of injury I was looking at.

“Are you busy tonight?” she asked.

Her ebony skin was in perfect condition, no lacerations or bruising. If she’d fallen on her hand like she claimed, I’d expect to see some kind of evidence. “Yes, I am,” I said, gently turning it this way and that.

“What about tomorrow night? Do you have dinner plans?”

My gaze snapped to her as she bit her bottom lip.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t have time.”

She raised a thin dark brow. “You don’t have time to eat?”

I opened my mouth, not sure what to say to that. Emoire was lovely, but I had no interest in eating a meal with her. Maybe I could avoid the question by steering the conversation back to her mystery injury.

“Are you sure it’s hurt?” I lifted her wrist, turning it this way and that.

Emoire stared at me with a dreamy look on her face, lips parted.

I raised my eyebrows, waiting for her response.

“Oh!” She winced. “Oh, ow. Yes, that hurts. It really, really does.”

She was the third patient this morning who’d done something like this, who’d come in with an injury I couldn’t diagnose but claimed she badly needed treatment.

“Can you bend your wrist?” I asked.

Her faced twisted into a pained expression as she slowly turned her hand downward, her fingers brushing my palm. That definitely seemed like it was on purpose.

I cleared my throat at the touch and lurched to my feet. “I think maybe you just have a sprain.”

“Will I need to come back for a checkup?” she asked, eyes full of hope.

“Um.” I scratched the back of my neck. “Not for a sprain. I’ll just give you a salve and a bandage, and⁠—”

“I think it’s broken,” she burst out.

I blinked. “It’s definitely not broken. You would be in severe pain if it were.”

“Dammit. I knew I should’ve gone with abdominal pain.”

A knock sounded at the door, and a feminine voice called out, “Hey, what’s the holdup? Is it my turn yet?”

I opened the door to see a line of women stretching down the castle hallway, and my mouth fell open. I’d never had this many patients waiting at one time.

“Is it my turn?” the redheaded woman facing me asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“One minute.” I slammed the door shut, pressing my back against it, and stared at Emoire. “What’s going on?”

She came to a stand and leaned against the wooden table in the middle of the room. “What do you mean?”