Piers shrugged, immediately regretting it. His wound wasn’t terrible, but it was still there and aching.

“Don’t move,” she scolded. “Now, brace yourself. This might sting.” She squirted his shoulder with an ice-cold liquid that nearly sent him flying from the room.

“Zeus’s bollocks!” Piers roared. He clenched his teeth. It was all he could do to keep his backside on the stool while the fires of Hades consumed his skin. “What in the Underworld is that?”

“Ooh, I like those. Zeus’s bollocks! What in the Underworld?” She squirted him again, this time from the back, pushing his hand away when he tried to probe his shoulder. “No touching!”

“What. Is. That?” Piers ground out, breathing hard.

“Antiseptic,” she said brightly. “It sterilizes the wound.”

“Humph.” As much as it hurt—and it did—now—Piers couldn’t argue with that. His mother and sister—both accomplished healers—were always talking about cleaning open injuries to prevent infection. Besides, anyone with half a brain knew from simple life experience that keeping clean prevented a variety of unsavory conditions. “You could’ve warned me.”

“I did. I said brace yourself.” She snorted. “Then you started screaming like a baby.”

Piers glared at her. “I did no such thing.”

“Oh, sorry…” She wasn’t sorry at all, the little witch. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You started swearing like a sailor.”

“That’s better,” he said stiffly. “And there’s more where that came from.”

“I’ll bet, Mr. Macho Man.”

“Piers,” he said, exasperated. “It’s not that hard.”

Grinning, Sophie knelt and patted his torso dry with another clean towel. “Okay, Piers. We’ll let the bullet wound airdry, but let’s wipe off the rest of this. At least it’s not bleeding anymore.”

Piers glanced at his shoulder. It looked fine. Sure, there was a hole, but it was very small. “I’m sorry I ruined the clothing you gave me.”

Sophie scoffed. “Are you kidding? You saved the day. You saved me,” she added quietly.

Piers saw goose bumps wash down her arms, and the urge to comfort her swelled inside him with the force of a lightning storm. He almost moved but then remembered he was still half dripping with antiseptic.

In a low rasp, he said, “I hope I’m there whenever you need me.”

Dipping her head, Sophie finished patting him dry. “I hope you’re there even when I don’t.”

Her soft confession made the muscles in Piers’s chest go bowstring tight. A hot twist of longing wrung a hard beat from his heart. Sophie’s hair slid forward, brushing his skin. He barely suppressed a groan. He wanted to sink his hands into that thick golden mane and pull her mouth to his.

Gods, she smelled so good. Like wild roses and that soap he’d wanted to lick. Sweet almond and honey—that was it. Two foods he never could resist.