Page 7 of Her Wolf Protector

Arwen's hand thumped onto damp oak. A beam, not a tree trunk. The first of three steps leading to a cottage that looked like it could have been here when her father first crossed over to the human world.

This was no fairy ring, yet her heart had led her here. To three steps that felt impossible to climb, in her exhausted state.

She needed rest. Not for long. Just a night, and she would continue on in the morning. Her heart knew what she needed, and this place must be it. How many other fae had spent the night beneath this very roof, resting at the beginning or end of a long journey? Surely that was the purpose of this place. This was her fae heritage as much as theirs.

Arwen hauled her deadweight body up the steps, reaching up for the door handle. A handle, not a knob, so all she had to do was close her fingers around it, and let the full weight of her arm drag it down to open the door. No need for locks this far in the forest.

Ice-white tiles froze her fingers as she crawled over the threshold and came face to face with a washing machine. Arwen almost laughed. The cottage might be ancient, but the inside had been upgraded with the times. Her father wasn't the only fae who fancied modern gadgets.

Arwen struggled out of her wet clothes, piling them into the barrel of the washing machine to deal with later. She wiped herself dry with a towel and tossed that in, too.

The next room had wood floors, worn smooth over the centuries, but it was the bed around the corner that caught her attention. She could explore the place later, when she woke. Right now, what she needed most was rest.

Someone had already made the bed, as though they were expecting her. The ancient laws of hospitality still held true here, as they did in the fae realm. She'd need to remember that, when she crossed over.

But now...to sleep, perchance to dream, so that tomorrow she might take arms against a sea of troubles once more and venture into what Hamlet had called the undiscovered country, for he was just a human prince, not a fae one, though he'd lost his father, too.

Arwen tumbled into the bed, fumbling at the blankets until they covered her from the grasp of winter's icy claws.

To sleep. Oh yes, to dream ...

SIX

The one time Tate left his first aid kit in his pickup was the first time he'd actually needed the sodding thing. Not because he was injured, though he was bleeding all over the place from a thousand tiny bites that had gone all the way through clothes and skin. No, because he wanted to swab the otter saliva from his skin, shove it in a sample bottle or ten, and send that to the lab. The otters were rabid, and a lab test would confirm it. There was nothing in the water that could turn such tiny, harmless creatures into rage monsters so crazy they'd attack a werewolf.

He'd still need to go back and retrieve his sampling pole, which he'd had to drop in the creek in order to fend off the mad menaces, but he could do that in the morning, as well as take the final water samples that he now knew would be as clear as Sanctuary Falls because the contaminant wasn't in the water, it was in the beasties' blood.

And as soon as he got the saliva and water samples to the lab for testing, he could head back to Wuffingas Estate and take a few days off, the better to enjoy his sister's cooking. At least he still had some Scotch eggs to tide him over until tomorrow, which was the earliest he'd be able to set out for town. With the light fading, he'd be better off heading to Tarn Cottage to raid the first aid kit there, and use the shower, before getting a good night's sleep so he could finish the rest of the sample run in the morning. Tomorrow, he'd have calmed down enough not to kill the otters on sight, or to tear the head off whatever idiot hadn't bothered testing the otters in the first place when they'd first seen them behaving strangely.

Death by a thousand cuts...he felt like they'd tried to kill him with a thousand bites, every single one stinging like he'd been rubbed in salt, dipped in lemon juice and bathed in something that had been triple distilled but not diluted yet. Bloody hell, he could do with a dram of whisky about now. No, a whole bloody bottle. He'd even drink the watery, triple distilled Irish stuff, instead of the more flavoursome double distilled varieties the locals made.

Of course, the nearest bottle of whisky was further away than either of his first aid kits, as Tarn Cottage was where he and Ylva took children, and he knew better than anyone that alcohol and teenagers didn't mix well. Almost as bad as drinking and driving, which was why there was no whisky in his pickup, either.

Tate sighed. Tomorrow, after he dropped off the samples to be sent to the lab, he'd stop in at the off licence in town, pick up a fresh bottle of whisky, and take it back to the estate, where he'd probably end up sharing it with whoever was willing to commiserate with him on the uselessness of government employees who couldn't even recognise rabies if it bit them on the arse.

But in the meantime, he would make do with a long, hot shower that used up all the hot water in Tarn Cottage's storage tanks, a hot meal, reheated with whatever power was left in the storage batteries, and a decent night's sleep in the only bed left with a mattress. At least he'd have it all to himself tonight, and no one would be around to see the bite marks. It was worse than that time he and Shaw had wrestled beside a blackberry patch, and ended up among the briars. His father had never let him hear the end of that...mostly because Father had believed Tate's injuries were the result of losing the wrestling match, and nothing he said would disabuse him of that notion.

Which was why Tate loved Tarn Cottage so much. It had been the escape he'd needed as a kid, where he was allowed to be friends with Shaw instead having to pretend they were mortal enemies under his father's bitter gaze.

Even dragging his feet across the curved stone bridge as the cottage came into sight lifted a weight from his shoulders. Better than home, it was refuge.

Ignoring the front door, Tate headed around the back. For a moment, he considered going into the bathroom block, with its bigger hot water tank feeding the dozen showers they needed when the bunkrooms was full. But the first aid kit with its gauze swabs was in the main house, and once he was inside there, it was much simpler to toss his clothes into the washing machine before claiming the house shower.

He filled three sample bottles with gooey gauze, then wearily stripped off his clothes. Most of them probably weren't worth saving, but even a half shredded shirt had its uses at Tarn Cottage. As long as it was clean. So he tossed everything into the washing machine and set off a wash cycle before shuffling into the shower.

The water stung as it hit his skin, and Tate cursed Ylva for buying a bulk container of citrus shower gel as he lathered up. At least there was no one here to hear him swearing a blue streak. If there were kids here, he'd have been more careful. He wouldn't bring any of the younger pack members here until someone dealt with the rabid otters, though. Perhaps it was a good thing there weren't any mattresses in the loft bunkrooms.

Tate soaped, rinsed, then soaped again, until the stinging bites subsided a little. A bunch of them were still bleeding, though, so he padded past the towel and into the house proper, to the bedroom where he could see his injuries in the full length mirror.

Fuck. It looked like he'd broken out in hives, or rolled in that briar patch. Good thing werewolves were immune to rabies.

Tate concentrated, reaching for the lupine part of him as he inhaled deeply. Something sure smelled good. Must be Sienna's Scotch eggs. It took all his self control not to race back to the laundry, nose open his backpack, and devour his dinner in one gulp. No, he wanted a hot meal, and he still had to label those last three sample bottles, both of which required him to shift back to his human form.

But first, he had to heal, and the fact that he itched all over told him the bites weren't gone yet. Meanwhile, that mouthwatering scent really did have him drooling. He'd need to wipe the floor later, but what was a bit of drool between all those dripping wet footprints? He was the only person here. No one would ever know.

Finally, the itching faded. Tate dropped to the floor and rolled, hoping to iron out any remaining itching, but the old floorboards were too worn to give much friction. He'd have to use one of the old logs outside, as there wouldn't be any decent grass stubble until summer.

Sighing, he shifted back to human. The bites were fading, but not gone. Cursing, Tate shifted. In the end, he had to shift from human to wolf and back again three times before the bites vanished completely, and by that time his stomach was snarling for food like he'd swallowed a rabid wolf pack.