Her cheeks heated. She remembered struggling out of her wet clothes the previous night, and she was pretty sure that Tarek had turned away, but the details were fuzzy, blurred by exhaustion. She’d been too tired to feel self-conscious about stripping down to her undergarments in a strange male’s home.
Now she felt self-conscious, but there was nothing to be done about it. Her own clothes were probably still drying somewhere, and she wasn’t about to go searching through his belongings for something more appropriate. The shirt would have to do.
She padded cautiously to the archway that led to the main room and paused at the threshold.
Tarek stood at a small wood stove in the kitchen alcove, his back to her. He wore a loose shirt and leather trousers, his dark hair loose around his shoulders, and he was concentrating on whatever he was stirring in the pot on the stove. The fireplace was freshly stoked, flames dancing merrily, and the whole room smelled of woodsmoke and something sweet that made her mouth water.
For a moment, she simply watched him. She watched the play of firelight across his broad shoulders and the casual grace of his movements, trying to reconcile this domestic scene with theintimidating warrior she’d first encountered in the grove.But this side is just as attractive,she thought, her cheeks warming.I like the protector and the provider.
She must have betrayed her presence somehow because he turned—and went very still.
His eyes found hers first. Then they dropped, trailing down over the too-large shirt to her bare legs and her naked feet against the stone floor. Something flared in those green depths. Something hot and hungry that made her breath catch.
Then it was gone, shuttered away behind that careful control, and he was turning back to the stove as if nothing had happened.
“Sit.” His voice was rough. “Eat.”
Her legs felt unsteady as she crossed to the table. It was a simple piece—sturdy wood, smoothly sanded—but there was only one chair although the table could have seated more.
She hesitated. “I don’t want to take your seat.”
“Sit.” A command this time, brooking no argument.
She sat.
The chair was exactly the right height for the table, and she realized with a small pang that he must have carved it himself. He’d adjusted until it was perfect, but it was a lonely kind of perfection, designed for a male who expected no visitors.
A moment later he appeared at her elbow with a bowl of steaming grain studded with what looked like dried berries. He set it in front of her along with a carved wooden spoon, then retreated to lean against the wall near the stove, arms crossed over his chest.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He gave a curt nod but said nothing.
She picked up the spoon and took a bite. The grain was simple but well-made, seasoned with something that gave it a faintly sweet, nutty flavor. Her stomach cramped with gratitude, and she had to force herself to eat slowly instead of shoveling it in like a starving animal.
As she ate, she let her gaze wander around the room, taking in some of the details she had failed to notice the night before. A single large chair sat before the fireplace, carved from dark wood and padded with furs. A woven rug covered part of the stone floor, its pattern simple but pleasing.
It was a home. A real home, with care and thought put into every detail.
And it was designed for exactly one person.
One chair at the table. One chair by the fire. One bed.
How long has he been here?she wondered.How long has he lived like this, alone on a mountain, with no one to talk to?
She thought of the careful way he’d tended to them last night—the fire he’d built, the broth he’d heated, the gentleness with which he’d carried Dani to bed. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d simply… taken care of them, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
But nothing about this den suggested he was used to caring for anyone but himself.
What drove you here?she wanted to ask.What are you running from?
But she didn’t think she had the right. Not yet. Not when she was a guest in his home, eating his food and wearing his shirt. Some questions were too personal for strangers, and despite everything they’d shared, they were still strangers.
“Your sister?”
She looked up to find him watching her with an unreadable expression.
“Better,” she said, and couldn’t keep the relief from her voice. “Much better. Her breathing is easier, and her color…”
