The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

covering her naked parts with the blankets and wincing. “Like I fell through the ice.”
    “I’ll have food for us soon.”
    That was good since her stomach felt like it was going to gnaw through her spine.
    “You didn’t get frostbite, no hypothermia. It was close though.”
    “How do you know? You a doctor?”
    “No.” He stirred the fire. “I just have a sense for stuff like that.”
    She sneezed. “All I contracted is a cold, I guess. I can live with that. Thank you.”
    He inclined his head. “I thought the ice could hold you if it could hold a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound wolf.”
    She sniffled and raised a brow. “What exactly are you implying?” Well, at least her sense of humour wasn’t totally lost.
    He only stared blankly at her.
    “Never mind.” Apparently he didn’t spend much time around women ... or anyone, for that matter. “Please tell me you have a bathroom.”
    He looked pointedly at the back of the cabin. “Just like any other house.”
    Thank God. She went to flip the blankets back and was immediately hit in the face with a pair of grey sweats and a black sweater. “Hey, relax! I wasn’t going to gross you out with my body again, don’t worry about it.”
    “Wear those.” He turned back to the fire. “Your clothes are still wet.”
    Fuming, she pulled on the too-big clothes, followed by a pair of thick wool socks that were lying on the bedside table. “I thought shifters weren’t supposed to care about things like nudity.”
    He didn’t answer her. Big surprise.
    “Do you have running water?” she snapped, rising.
    He was back to poking the stick into the fire. “Running water, heat, electricity. I equipped the place with solar collection panels.”
    Of course he was off the grid more than halfway up Elgonquinn Mountain, far from the pack and even farther from human civilization. Just the way he liked it, undoubtedly. She sneezed again, glowered at his back, then headed in to drive the residual chill from her bones with what she hoped was steaming hot water.
    She entered the small bathroom and started the water in the shower. The wind whistled past the small oval window above the toilet, snow swirling. The boy was still out there somewhere in this.
    Catching her reflection in the mirror over the sink, she pushed a hand through her short hair, letting the thick ends trail through her fingers. There were no tell-tale signs of injury as a result of her fall through the ice. Mac had rescued her from the water and managed to get her warm quickly enough. OK, maybe he did have a “sense for stuff like that”.
    She examined the skin around her eyes. Thirty-two years old and she was already getting wrinkles. Before this trek was over she’d probably end up with a few grey hairs to go with them.
    Lily exited the bathroom rubbing a towel through her brown hair. Mac looked away from her, stirring the pot of stew on the stove.
    It was strange to have a woman in his house, stranger that it was Lily. When he’d been paired with her to go after Casey, he’d been pleased. He was attracted to her, had been for a while.
    Hell, it went past attraction.
    But humans and shifters, it wasn’t done. It was against federal law, in fact, not to mention every human or shifter societal norm. Not that he cared about norms, or laws for that matter.
    He wasn’t good at relating to people, but every time he was in her presence ... he wanted to try. Really, he just wanted her.
    She sneezed again.
    “Come sit down. I have stew and some bread and butter.” He glanced at her. “You need to eat something hot. The storm will have let up by tomorrow morning and we can hit the trail again.”
    She had less than twenty-four hours to kick the sickness trying to take hold in her body. Mac could sense a person’s physical well-being and, while it was true she just had a cold, trudging through the snow could turn it into something much worse.
    “Thanks.” She settled into one of the set places at the table. He served a bowl and she dug in with the kind of appetite that Mac liked to see.
    “The scars.” He glanced at her. “On your thigh and stomach.” He’d seen them when he had taken off her wet clothes. Long, wide slashes.
    “I don’t want to talk about it.” She paused, softened. “If you don’t mind.”
    He took a bite of bread.
    “It’s, uh—” She swallowed hard.
    “You don’t have to tell me.”
    “No, it’s OK. I was married once and. . .he wasn’t very