Page 20 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

I lean back carefully. "Barely."

A small smile appears, the expression changing her entire face for a moment, making her look younger, lighter, before it disappears just as quickly. "I wasn't sure when you'd wake."

I study her, dark auburn hair falling over one shoulder, the lighthouse keeper's practical clothes a sharp contrast to the image that keeps replaying in my head—the woman diving into impossible waters without hesitation.

"How long was I out?" The question leaves my mouth before I remember why I shouldn't ask it.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, though to my relief, she answers differently than I expect. "Long enough for me to start wondering if I'd have to explain to your mother why I brought home a corpse."

A snicker escapes me, immediately followed by another cough. "Good to know you're optimistic."

"I try," she says.

The brief exchange eases some of the tension filling the room, though not all of it—just enough. Because the moment silence settles between us, the connection returns, strong and immediate, that strange pull from the shoreline, the sensation that began the instant our eyes met. The awareness of her presence. Every movement, every breath, every shift of expression. I've never experienced anything like it, and the realization lands heavily, a mate.

The word remains absurd, impossible, and yet nothing else explains this. I've heard stories all my life, every shifter has, and most of them sound exaggerated, romanticized. This doesn't. This feels frighteningly real.

Reina clears her throat. "You should probably drink something."

I blink. "What?"

She gestures toward a nearby table. "You keep staring."

Heat crawls up my neck. Embarrassing. "I was thinking."

"That must be exhausting," she says, the deadpan delivery catching me off guard. A surprised laugh escapes me, and Reina looks equally surprised, as though she didn't expect the joke herself.

The moment fades quickly as she crosses the room and hands me a mug, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The reaction is immediate—a sharp pulse racing through me, electric, pleasurable, dangerous. Reina freezes, the mug nearly slipping from her hand before I catch it, , we remain mute while the awareness between us intensifies and suddenly the room feels much smaller.

Reina steps back first, not far, just enough, her composure returning mostly. "Tea."

I glance at the mug. "Thank you."

She nods, then moves toward the window, creating distance, and the action tells me everything I need to know. She's feeling this too. That should be reassuring. Instead, it somehow makes everything more complicated.

I take a careful drink, the warmth helping, my lungs still aching but less than before. "You saved me."

Her shoulders tense slightly. "I did," she says, the answer simple, matter-of-fact, as though nearly drowning isn't worth discussing further.

"I don't remember much."

She studies the ocean beyond the window. "There isn't much to remember."

I disagree. I remember enough—the storm forming around my boat, the darkness in the water, the feeling that something was hunting. My expression hardens, and Reina notices immediately.

"What is it?" she asks.

I set the mug aside. "The storm."

Her gaze sharpens. "What about it?"

"It wasn't natural." The words leave without hesitation, and Reina turns fully toward me, neither of us looking away.

"No," she says quietly. "It wasn't."

The certainty in her voice confirms what I already suspected. "You felt it too. A humorless smile appears. "I've been feeling pieces of it for weeks."

The answer catches my attention. "Weeks?"