“Hold on,” he said. Twisting, he grabbed the full teakettle. It hadn’t had a chance to get very warm, but it had to be better than sticking her head under the tap again. Carefully he rinsed the dark stream of wet hair, marveling at how the curls sprang up when he ran his fingers through the long strands. As he worked, she scrubbed at her face and hands.
The act of helping her to wash her hair seemed inappropriately intimate. It was as velvety soft as it looked. He wondered what her skin would taste like at the nape of her neck. He wondered what she would say or do if he bent to find out.
But no, he didn’t have to wonder very much at that.
Thanks for asking, asshole!
Biting back another smile, he found he was reluctant to draw the task to its end, but then the kettle was empty and there was no reason to keep her hanging over the sink any longer.
“Thank you,” she told him, turning her head to one side to squeeze the excess water out of her hair. “My clothes feel vile enough, but somehow it was worse having blood all over my head and in my hair.”
“Stay put. I’ll get you a towel.” Down the short hall, he found the linen cupboard and brought back a towel for her to wrap her hair in.
When she stood, her face was no longer pale but a deep, pleasing pink, although the shadows under her eyes were still too dark. “If any more of those werewolves crash in here, I’m not going to be much help,” she said. “I’m jet-lagged and exhausted, and I pulled something deep on my bad side.”
He nodded to himself. It was pretty much what he had thought. “I’m going outside to lay some aversion spells around the area. If we’re lucky, the rest of the night will be quiet.”
“Quiet would be good.” Her face tightened. “Those things hardly paused when Arran shot them.”
“He probably didn’t have silver in his bullets,” Nikolas told her. “Most gun owners don’t. The bullets are expensive, and a lycanthrope running wild is pretty rare. Most of them are disturbed by the change, and they’re all too happy to cage themselves during full moons.”
Her expression lit with interest. “Silver bullets affect them?”
“Yes.” He paused, reluctant to look away from her mesmerizing eyes. “They’re still tough to kill, but if you put a silver bullet between their eyes, it’ll kill them well enough. Also, they can’t heal at a magical rate from wounds inflicted with silver bullets or weapons.”
“Good to know.” She clenched her hands. “I’m never going to be able to get a gun legally here, am I?”
“As you’re not a UK citizen, it’s highly doubtful. You would only warrant one if you needed it in some official capacity, and the government approved of that reason. Some demesne leaders and their entourages are granted firearm certificates.” He cocked his head. “Why, do you want one?”
“Oh my gods, yes. Like I told you, my spells are only useful in close quarters.” With an explosive sigh, she said, “The water has got to be at least bearable by now, don’t you think? I’m going to finish cleaning up.”
She had gone head-to-head with monsters that were over twice her size and weight, and she had done it without hesitating. He had seen her race alone toward the pub. It was one of the bravest things he had ever seen anybody do.
As she turned away from him, he caught her by the arm. “What you did back there—”
“Jesus, don’t touch me there!” she cried, yanking away from his hold. They stared at each other. She whispered, “I had one active spell left.”
He clenched. She grabbed his hand and turned it over, stroking his fingers and palm and turning it over. After a moment, she sagged and looked up at him again with relief brimming in her eyes.
She said, “Thank God. The spell didn’t recognize you as an enemy.”
He gave in to his impulse at last and cupped her chin, stepping close so that he could feel the heat from her body. It was a subtle warmth that touched him in places he didn’t understand and had long denied existed. “That’s because I’m not your enemy, Sophie.”
As he watched, she licked her lips. Watching her tongue slide over the plush, pink curve of her lower lip caused him to harden and woke a hunger he hadn’t felt for anyone in years.
Years.
What the hell was happening to him? He jerked away and stalked toward the door. He snapped, “I’m going to lay down those spells while you shower.”
“Right,” she said without looking at him. “I’ll make it quick, so there should be some warm water left for you.”
He didn’t bother to answer that. Instead, he stalked out the door, breathing hard in the cool, damp night air. He had no business feeling any kind of desire for her. She was someone who was possibly of some use to him, nothing more.
She chose to stay when she shouldn’t have. Earlier, she had chosen to engage with the Hounds—and she shouldn’t have. She was also choosing to defend the puck, and by gods, she had already been warned multiple times she shouldn’t have done that.
And he had his mission. There was nothing more critical, more important, than making sure he did everything he possibly could to keep his men alive, to try to find a way back to Lyonesse, and to take down Isabeau and Morgan any way he could.
He had no interest, and no time, for anything else.
After a few minutes, the unwelcome tightening in his groin eased.
He got down to business and set a series of aversion spells around the property, grimly ignoring the ghosts in his head and the ancient memories of the battle that tried to resurface. Whether or not the aversion spells would be useful was anybody’s guess.
The effect of an aversion spell could be directly measured against the intelligence and determination of the creature that encountered it. At least if something tripped a spell, Nikolas would feel it, so he would have advance warning before anything got too close to the cottage.
Also, there were no direct scent trails to lead any questing Hounds to this location. The only way the Hounds could possibly learn to come here would be if they spent some time in human form, questioning people in town. Nikolas and Sophie were probably safe from attack for one night. Possibly not for any longer, but he felt fairly confident about tonight.
Finally he felt like he had done what he could. Only then did he pause to text Gawain. Hounds attacked the pub. Sophie, Robin, and I have moved to a different location.
Gawain replied almost immediately. Damn. Was anyone hurt?
Four casualties. We’re fine. Nikolas paused, then typed more slowly. Sophie ran into the pub to help before I could stop her. She saved lives. She’s a brave fighter.
He paused and then, choosing not to overthink it, hit send.
Gawain’s reply was a few minutes in coming. I’m glad she’s okay. I filled the others in earlier, after I left. We’re all moving into position so that none of us are too far away. Call us for backup if you need to.
I will.
The conversation finished, Nikolas pocketed his phone. He paused to consider the shadowed manor house sprawling over the shattered land magic. It was an ugly, useless building, sitting on a cursed location. The gods only knew what Sophie saw in it.
Turning his back on the manor house, he strode back to the cottage.
Inside, everything was quiet. Sophie’s luggage had disappeared, while his go-bag still rested in the corner nearest the door. The puck was nowhere to be seen. Walking through the small place, he saw that the bedroom was darkened and the door half shut.
Gently he pushed the door open wider to look inside. As it creaked on its hinges, Sophie’s weary voice said, “I don’t recall inviting you in here.”