“Now, if there’ll be nothing else—”
She walked to the door, one leading to a little balcony.
“You want out again? For Christ’s sake. It doesn’t have stairs.” He walked over, wrenched it open. “So if you want down, you’ll have to jump.”
But she only scented the air, walked back in, sat by the fire.
“Doors open then.” Since he’d done the same in his own room, he could hardly fault her. “Anything else, you’ll need to wait till morning and deal with it yourself.”
He started out, paused. “Annika made enough of a meal for you, if you want it in the morning.”
Unsure, he left her door open, started toward his own room. He heard the sound of her door closing as he reached his own.
So for what it was worth, he thought, Sasha had all her chicks in the roost.
CHAPTER TWO
Gnawing hunger and shivering chill woke Riley at first light. The fire had burned to embers; rain pattered on the terrace outside the open door.
She lay on the floor in front of the dying fire, naked, disoriented. She rarely slept through the change—it was far too intense. In the rare times she had, it was due to utter exhaustion.
Obviously, a vicious battle followed by a shift via Sawyer’s magic compass equaled exhaustion.
Stiff, shivering, she pushed to her feet, shoved at her short, shaggy brown hair, and looked around. Her mind, her reason, her instincts worked perfectly well in wolf form, so she’d selected the room the night before due to not only its big, excellent bed, but also the desk.
She’d need a good work space for research.
But that was for later. Now she needed clothes, and God, she needed to eat. It wasn’t just the fasting from sundown to sunrise—a hard and fast rule of her pack—but the massive amount of energy the change burned. From woman to wolf, from wolf to woman.
Now she felt weak, shaky, and grateful Doyle had, however reluctantly, carried up her duffle. She pawed through it, grabbing the first pants that came to hand, and dragged on ancient brown cargoes, then a faded Oxford sweatshirt and warm, thick socks an aunt had knitted her for her birthday one year.
She wanted a shower, a hot, endless shower, but needed fuel more.
Moving quietly, she stepped out of the room, scanned the hallway, thought back. She’d yet to see the kitchen, didn’t know exactly where to find it, but went down the stairs.
She thought Bran had done damn well for himself with the big house on the Irish coast. Not just the size—though wowzer—but the style, the craftsmanship. And the clever, mystical touches here and there as a testament to his heritage.
Celtic knots worked into the decor—and dragons, sexy faeries. Good, strong colors; thick, rich woodwork. Compelling art—which reminded her she needed to see two pieces in particular.
Two of Sasha’s paintings—two in which Bran had magickally hidden the stars. She trusted, absolutely, they were safe, but she wanted to see them for herself.
Meanwhile, with a hand pressed to her empty belly, she wandered. It seemed most likely the kitchen would be toward the rear of the house, so she headed that way in the glo
omy half light of a rainy dawn.
She passed a manly sort of office—lots of leather in chocolate tones, dark green walls, big gorgeous desk. Another that surprised her with its old grand piano, a cello—she’d always wanted to learn how to play the cello—a collection of bodhran drums, flutes, and fiddles. A spacious sitting room that managed to look cozy, a gorgeous library that nearly had her putting aside hunger.
All with wide archways, with gleaming floors, with hearths ready to offer warmth and light.
How many rooms did the man need? she wondered. And finally found the kitchen.
Not just a kitchen, for all its spiffy style, but a big-ass lounge with more leather in big-ass sofas and chairs, a ridiculously sized wall screen. Flanking the kitchen’s other side? A game area—snooker table, a full bar that had certainly come out of some wonderful old pub, a couple of old-style pinball tables that again nearly had hunger taking a backseat.
She could have lived in this one huge room for the rest of her life. Especially with the wide glass doors bringing in that bad-tempered sky and gloomy sea.
“You’ve got class, Irish,” she murmured, and all but fell on the fruit piled artistically in a wide, polished wood bowl. Biting into a peach, nearly moaning at the first taste of food, she yanked open both doors of a refrigerator.
Pounced again.