Awaken the Highland Warrior

“You startled me,” she fibbed. No need to tell him that thing had clawed her, or she’d hurt her ankle, which seemed fine now. He already thought she was dying from looking at a light. “Is this why you wanted to leave?”

“You have no idea what we’re dealing with.” He held his arm stiff against his side.

“Then stop pretending you can’t remember anything, and tell me what’s happening.” She lifted his sleeve. Blood ran from a gash above the scar on his left bicep. She pulled her dust-covered pajama top over her head, thankful she’d worn a bra. Turning it inside out, she pressed it against the cut. “You need stitches.”

“I just need a bandage,” Faelan said, staring at her breasts. “I’ve had worse injuries.” His gaze hesitated on the cross she wore, before lifting to her eyes. “I didn’t know you could throw a dirk.”

“I didn’t either. It’s like something was controlling my arm. I can’t believe I killed it.”

A muscle twitched erratically in his jaw. “That makes two of us.”

“All those cousins who thought I was crazy, even my mother. I knew there was more to life than just… life. Hold my shirt against your arm,” she said. “After I get those swords out of the chapel, I’ll bandage your wound. No need to leave all those weapons for them to kill us with.”

“They don’t need swords. They could kill you with their fingernails. I’ll get the weapons tomorrow.”

“What were those things? What were they doing in my chapel, and what the heck did Grog do? One minute he was human then he… wasn’t.”

Faelan still watched her as if she’d swallowed a hand grenade. “They were halflings, and they were looking for me.”

“Halflings? Like in the movies?”

“I don’t know about your movies. These aren’t full-blooded demons, but they have some demon blood. Full demons can’t step on holy ground. That’s why Grog couldn’t come through the door.”

“Why didn’t he disappear like the ones in the chapel?”

“I only wounded him. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Good grief. I just looked at a light. You saw it too, and you’re fine.”

“It’s my talisman. What are you doing out here, anyway? I told you to stay inside.”

“I was bringing your dagger,” she said, checking his wound. “You have control issues, and you’re a chauvinist. A nice one, but a chauvinist. You should work on that.”

“You could’ve been killed.”

“I know. That thing had claws an inch—”

“No. My talisman could’ve killed you. It should have killed you. That’s why I told you to close your eyes.”

“How could I not look? It was glorious—”

He shook his head and rubbed his hand over his face. “You’re the most exasperating woman I’ve ever known. Nobody looks at an engaged talisman and lives.”

“Then I guess I’m lucky I’m seeing only shadows and black spots. But if we don’t get inside and bandage this cut, you’ll likely bleed to death right here in the driveway, and I’ll have to kill Grog myself.”

Faelan said something not very gallant as he retrieved the dagger Grog dropped.

Bree ushered Faelan into her bathroom, since the first-aid kit was there, and remembered too late, so was the Jacuzzi. “Don’t move.” She wasn’t about to keep hovering over him half naked. Even wounded, he hadn’t stopped staring at her breasts. She put on the first thing she saw, an old T-shirt of Russell’s she’d planned to burn in a cleansing ceremony, and walked back to the bathroom where Faelan sat on the toilet lid holding her shirt against his wound. His fingers were long and lean, strong. He’d thrown that dagger like he’d been doing it forever. She could think of other things those fingers would probably do well, but until she found a way to keep her Prince Charmings from morphing into frogs, she couldn’t get romantically involved.

“Raise your arms.” She reached for the hem of his T-shirt, helping him pull it over his head. Her irritation was forgotten at the sight of all those muscles inches away and the bloody cut on his bicep.

She took a calming breath, which didn’t help at all, since all she could smell was him, and bent to get the first- aid kit from under the sink. When she looked back, she caught him staring at her butt. She scrubbed her hands and examined his wound. It was deep, still bleeding.

“You should get this stitched,” she said, after she’d cleaned it.

“No.”

“It’d be a shame to die of an infection because you were scared to go to the doctor.”

“I’m not scared… ouch! What did you do?”

“It’s antiseptic.”

“That hurt more than the knife. Well, do it then.”

“I’m done. Hold this gauze against it until it stops bleeding. I’ve got some pain reliever and sleeping pills, if you need them.”

“You need pills to sleep?”

“Not anymore.” Although she wouldn’t rule out tonight. “I hope this heals as fast as your palm.”

“That was a small cut, but I heal fast, unless I’m weak.”

“Good, because hospitals want ID, and you don’t exist.”