Moonshadow (Moonshadow #1)(40)

“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?”

“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.”