Chapter 7
He was having a marvelous dream.
A goddess bent over him, tenderly sponging his bare chest with a warm, damp cloth. He drifted, limbs heavy with exhaustion, surrendering to the comfort of her touch. Her voice was the most beautiful music, murmuring sweet, strange incantations: lord have mercy, and well hello sailor, and holy beefcake batman…
It was all so pleasant, it seemed a shame to wake up. But through his muzzy fog of contentment, duty prodded him, sharp and insistent. There was a reason he could not allow himself to relax and enjoy the novel experience of being cared for like this. A very urgent, pressing reason, if he could but remember it.
Something important. Someone important…
He snapped back into consciousness with a gasp, to find himself lying on his own bed, a blanket draped over him. Curiously, nothing hurt. He brushed a hand down his side and found nothing but the slight ridge of a new scar.
Apparently, he wasn’t dead.
But that would mean nothing, if she was gone.
He jerked upright, his panicked gaze sweeping the room—and his taut shoulders relaxed. The human woman lay curled on the floor next to his bed, head pillowed on a russet fox fur, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.
Cuan sank back into his pillows, letting out a relieved sigh. She was still here. And, even better, she was still asleep. If he’d awakened to find her already staring down at him, before he’d had time to mask his true visage…he flinched from the mere thought.
He summoned his magic, setting his usual glamour back into place. It took rather more effort than usual. His mystic energies had been drained and weakened by his injuries as much as his physical body. From his soul-deep weariness, he truly had been brushed by the Morrigan’s dark wing.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. He took brief stock of himself. His injuries were completely healed, even the bites he’d taken from the seelie fae hounds no more than old scars. He still wore his torn leather leggings, but the rest of his gear lay in a haphazard pile a little way off. That told him that he hadn’t undressed himself.
He gazed again at the human woman, wondering if it had been her soft hands that had loosened his armor and removed his shirt. The thought was instantly arousing.
And also extremely unlikely, he reminded himself. Given her experience with fae so far, no doubt the only desire in her mind is to brain you with a blunt implement.
That cold truth was as effective as ice water on his body’s rising interest. Why hadn’t she finished him off while he lay unconscious and helpless? Why was he still here? Why was she still here?
It was a mystery even greater than his healed wounds. When he’d passed out, she’d had the perfect opportunity to escape. Why hadn’t she?
Or…had she tried to run? She wouldn’t have been able to get far. Maybe she’d been caught and returned by the sidhean guards…
His fists clenched in fury at the thought of another fae daring to lay hands on her. Sliding out of bed, he kneeled down next to the woman, searching for any sign of bruises.
To his infinite relief, she seemed unharmed. He knew that he should draw back, to leave her to rest in private, yet he couldn’t tear himself away.
From the lush curve of her plump shoulder to the tender line of her wrist, her entire body enchanted him. He marveled at the deep brown hue of her skin; the dense, perfect curls of her midnight hair. She looked like some slumbering summer goddess, ripe and rich and fertile, waiting to be worshipped.
She didn’t stir as he leaned closer. Her full lips were slightly parted, moist and maddening. She sighed in her sleep, her sweet breath ruffling her fox fur pillow. Wrong, this was wrong, yet he couldn’t help himself—
Two things happened, at the same time.
It occurred to Cuan that he did not own a fox fur pillow.
And the pillow opened beady black eyes, let out a scream like an enraged banshee, and went for his throat.
With a startled yelp, Cuan scrambled away from the gaping maw of razor-sharp teeth. The snarling thing changed target, shooting straight for his groin. Cuan leaped for the top of his dresser, pressing his back to the wall and fumbling for his swords. The thing bounced in gravity-defying arcs, snapping at his ankles, all the while shrieking fit to raise the dead.
“Angus! Off!”
The demonic horror backed off at the human woman’s call. She swooped on it without the slightest trace of fear, scooping it up in her arms.
“I’m so sorry about that,” the woman said to Cuan. “You surprised him.”
Cuan lowered his swords, still breathing hard. “I surprised it?”
“Him, not it.” The woman cuddled the creature as though it was an adorable infant rather than a ball of fiery fur with fangs. Her voice dropped to a fond croon. “Angus was just trying to protect me, weren’t you, sweetie? Who’s a good boy?”