He stared at her.
“What?”
“You…” He seemed to be searching for words. “You read about us.”
“Of course. I studied the history of Cresca and the colonization by both humans and Vultor. Despite the prejudiced accounts, the pack dynamics are fascinating and—" She caught herself, aware that she was rambling. “I apologize. My father always said I talked too much when I was nervous.”
“Are you nervous?”
The question was almost a challenge, and she considered her answer carefully.
“I should be,” she admitted. “I’m weak, stranded, and trapped in a cabin with a male I don’t know, in territory where no one will think to look for me. By all logic, I should be terrified.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.” She met his golden gaze without flinching. “I’m not.”
She pushed the furs aside and swung her legs over the side of the sleeping platform. His shirt, the linen shirt he’d dressed her in, fell to her knees, preserving whatever modesty she had left after he’d changed her clothes. Her bare feet curled against the cold wooden floor.
“I need to walk around,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “My muscles are stiff from the stasis.”
He stood, rising from his chair in a fluid motion that reminded her of a predator uncoiling, and the sheer scale of him made her catch her breath. The cabin seemed to shrink around him, the firelight casting him in immense shadow against the walls. He moved towards the shelves on the far wall, and she tracked his progress with a fascination she didn’t try to hide. Every line of him spoke of power and controlled strength, of a body designed for survival.
She should not have found that as attractive as she did.
“How long was I unconscious?” she asked, partially to distract herself from the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders.
“Half a day. The cold put you into shock. Your body needed time to warm up.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, not looking back at her as he retrieved two carved wooden bowls from a shelf. “That’s why I had to remove your wet clothes.”
A flush of heat rose to her cheeks as she imagined that massive body bending over her and those big hands stripping off her nightgown, but she did her best to keep her voice calm. “I understand.”
He turned, holding the bowls. “Do you?”
She couldn’t read his expression, but something in his tone made her heart beat a little faster. “Yes. It was… necessary. Thank you.”
“Your nightgown and your necklace are in the wooden box by the bed.”
Her mother’s necklace? Another wave of gratitude swept over her.
“That means so much to me. Thank you.”
He simply nodded and filled the two bowls from a pot simmering over the fire, then carried them to a table carved from a single massive slab of wood.
He gestured towards the table with one of the bowls. “Sit. You need to eat.”
She made her way to the table, her steps unsteady. Every muscle in her body protested, and her head still ached, but she refused to show weakness. She sank onto the chair, hard and unyielding after the softness of the furs.
“My supplies are limited,” he said, placing the bowl in front of her along with a spoon carved from horn. “But this should help you regain your strength.”
The bowl contained some kind of thick, dark stew that smelled surprisingly delicious.
“It smells wonderful.” She picked up the spoon, her fingers brushing against the smooth, polished horn. “My diet has always been… very restricted.” She took a tentative sip of the stew. Rich and savory, with a slightly smoky flavor that she immediately loved.
He picked up his own bowl but didn’t start eating. Instead he watched her from across the table with those intense golden eyes. He didn’t look at her the way any other male had ever looked at her. Not with the careful deference of her father’s employees or with the calculated assessment of a potential suitor evaluating her worth. He looked at her like she was a person.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Don’t tell him who you are,a voice whispered in her mind.Don’t let him know you’re the Duvain heir. Let him keep looking at you like this—like you’re just a woman, not a commodity.
