She must be feeling even worse than he thought, because she straightened to ease into one of the four chairs at the wooden, farm-style kitchen table.

He moved quickly through the cottage, taking stock. The rest of the furnishings looked as aged and comfortable as the kitchen. There was a musty, unused smell in the place and a slightly damp feeling.

The sitting room had a gas fire, and he paused to light it so it could chase the chill and the dampness out of the place. There was a minimally furnished bedroom with a bare mattress, a halfway-decent bath with a washer/dryer unit tucked in one corner, and the kitchen, which was actually the largest room in the cottage.

The refrigerator needed to be plugged in. After doing so, he set the bottle of milk in it and checked the contents of the box that Maggie had given them. There were eggs as well as bread, an orange and an apple, a package of cheese, and sugar for the tea, along with a few packets of guest soaps.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said.

He glanced at her. She sat with her forehead propped in one hand, and she looked as weary as anyone he had ever seen. “Yes, I do,” he told her. “There may be more Hounds on the hunt. I won’t have you getting hurt or killed, not when you can be of use to me.”

She laughed and immediately winced. “That’s breathtakingly callous, even for you.”

“So it is.” He had also regretted it as soon as he had said it, but he didn’t bother to apologize. Not only was it true, but he also didn’t think she would believe him if he did. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, he found and filled a teakettle and set it to warm on the stove. “In a half an hour or so, you’ll be able to take a comfortable shower, but in the meantime, there’ll be warm water here in a few minutes to wash up at the kitchen sink.”

“I don’t care,” she said as she rummaged through her toiletry bag to locate a small travel-sized bottle filled with liquid. Pushing to her feet, she moved to the sink, turned on the faucet, and stuck her head under the running water, swearing at the cold.

He laughed silently. They had only been acquainted through the course of a very long evening, but she had already surprised him in a multitude of ways. The water ran dark pink as it whirled down the drain.

“If you can stand it for long enough, I’ll help you wash the blood out of your hair.”

“Please,” she said through gritted teeth. “But hurry.”

She thrust the small bottle at him blindly, and he took it to squirt some of the liquid into the palm of one hand. Working the shampoo quickly through her hair, he massaged her scalp until there was a thick lather. The water ran cold enough to make the bones of his hands ache, and he could feel her body shaking.

“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?”