Doyle shut down—that was survival. “What was here for me was long ago.”
“And still,” she murmured, “the coming here tonight is harder on you, and the getting here tonight was hardest on Riley.”
“Considering we’d just fought off a god and her murderous minions, it wasn’t a ride on a carousel for any of us. All right,” he said at Sasha’s quiet look, “rough on her.”
He put the empty beer bottle in the pocket of his scarred leather coat, hauled up suitcases. “She’ll run it off, and be back by morning. Grab what you can, and I’ll get the rest. We both know you’d be more help to Bran with the injuries.”
She didn’t argue, and he noted that she limped a bit. To settle it, he set the bags down inside, plucked her up.
“Hey.”
“Easier than arguing. Is the house big enough for you?”
They passed wide archways and the rooms beyond them. Deep, rich colors, simmering fires in hearths, glinting lights, gleaming wood.
“It’s magnificent. It’s huge.”
“I’d say the two of you will have to make a lot of babies to fill it.”
“I—”
“That got you thinking.”
She’d yet to regain speech when he carried her into the kitchen. There, Sawyer, looking a little less pale, sat on a stool at a long slate-gray counter while Bran treated the burns on his hands.
Annika, who managed to look gorgeous despite the cuts, the bruises, earnestly sautéed chicken in an enormous frying pan at what Sasha recognized as a professional-grade six-burner range.
“Okay, now you want to—” Sawyer broke off, hissed as Bran hit a fresh point of pain.
“I take the chicken out, and put the vegetables in. I can do it,” Annika insisted. “Let Bran work.”
“I’ll help.” Sasha poked Doyle in the shoulder. “Put me down.”
The order had Bran turning, and moving quickly toward her. “What is it? Where is she hurt?”
“I’m not—”
“She’s limping some. Right leg.”
“It’s just—”
“Put her down there, beside Sawyer.”
“It’s just sore. Finish with Sawyer. I’ll help Annika, and—”
“I can do it!” Clearly frustrated, Annika dumped chicken on a platter. “I like to learn. I learned. I cook the chicken in the garlic and the oil, with the herbs. I cook the vegetables. I make the rice.”
“You’re pissing off the mermaid,” Doyle said, and dumped Sasha on a stool. “Smells good, Gorgeous.”
“Thank you. Sasha, you could tend to Bran’s wounds while he tends to yours and Sawyer’s. Then he can tend to mine. And we can eat because Sawyer needs to eat. He’s hurt, and he’s weak from . . .”
Her eyes filled, glistening green pools, before she turned quickly back to the range.
“Anni, don’t. I’m okay.”
When she only shook her head at Sawyer’s words, he started to rise. Doyle simply shoved him back onto the stool.
“I’ve got this.”
Doyle crossed the rugged wood floor, gave Annika’s tumbled hair a tug.
She turned, went straight into his arms. “I believed. I believed, but I was so afraid. Afraid she’d take him.”
“She didn’t. Dead-Eye’s smarter than that. He took her for a ride, and we’re all here now.”
“I have such love.” Sighing now, she rested her head on Doyle’s chest, looked into Sawyer’s eyes. “I have such love.”
“It’s why we’re here,” Sawyer said. “I believe that, too.”
“He’ll need some time to heal,” Bran said. “Some food, some sleep.”
“And a beer,” Sawyer added.
“That goes without saying. And now you.” Bran turned to Sasha.
“I don’t see that glass of wine.”
“I’m on it.” Doyle pressed a kiss to Annika’s forehead, turned her back to the range. “Cook.”
“I will. It will be very good.”
While Doyle poured wine, Bran rolled up Sasha’s pants leg. Let out a string of oaths at the raw-edged claw marks scoring down her calf. “Bumps and scrapes, is it?”
“I didn’t realize, honestly.” She took the wine Doyle offered, took a quick gulp. “And now that I do, it hurts a lot more.”
Bran took the glass from her, added a few drops from a bottle from his medicine case.
“Drink slow, and breathe slow,” Bran told her. “The cleaning of it’s going to sting.”
Sasha drank slowly, breathed slowly, and when the sting—a dozen angry wasps—struck, grabbed Doyle’s hand.
“I’m sorry. A ghrá. I’m sorry. Only a minute more. There’s infection.”
“She’s okay. You’re okay.” Doyle lured her gaze to his as Sawyer stroked her back. “Hell of a kitchen you’ve got now, Blondie. Somebody who can cook like you ought to do handsprings.”
“Yes. I like it—oh, God, okay—I like the cabinets. Not only the fact that there’s about an acre of them, but all those leaded-glass fronts. And the windows. It must get wonderful light.”
“She needs to drink more,” Bran said through gritted teeth. “Sawyer.”
“Drink it down.” Sawyer held the glass to her lips. “We’ll have a cook-off, you and me—and Anni,” he added.