There was no need to touch her here. The historical estate was well protected from any intruders, demonic or otherwise. It was his sanctuary. He flipped the switch on his sound system, music banishing the silence. No, he touched Kayla because he wanted to and because she needed that reassurance. He glanced back. Her face was pale, her brown eyes wide. She was in shock. He splashed some of his best cognac into a brandy snifter and handed it to her. “Drink this.” The liquor would put color back into her cheeks. She peered at the dark amber liquid. “What is it?” Her hand shook, sloshing the brandy against the glass. She didn’t trust him. For some reason he refused to explore, that hurt him. “Remy Martin’s Louis XIII.” She wrinkled up her freckled nose, and he smiled at her confusion. “A very old, very rich cognac.” “Oh.” She sniffed at it. “I’m fine. I don’t --” The glass shattered. “Max.” She swayed, a piece of glass imbedded in her hand. Max caught her in his arms.
