Chapter 11
The first thing Jessa noticed was warmth, a bone-deep warmth that seemed to have seeped into every part of her, loosening muscles she hadn’t realized were tight.
The furs beneath her were impossibly soft, and the ones draped over her smelled of woodsmoke and something musky and comforting that she couldn’t quite identify.
For a long, drowsy moment, she simply lay there with her eyes closed, savoring the sensation of being warm.
When was the last time she’d felt this comfortable?
Not in months, certainly. Maybe not in years.
Between Dani’s illness and Gerhard’s scheming and the constant grind of work, comfort had become a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Then memory crashed back, and her eyes flew open.
The mountain. The storm. Tarek.
She was in his den. In his bed.
She sat up carefully, heart pounding, and looked around.
The sleeping chamber was small but not cramped, its stone walls softened by woven hangings in muted colors—browns and greens and a deep rust red that reminded her of autumn leaves.
A carved wooden shelf held a few personal items: a bone-handled brush, a small clay pot, and a stack of what looked like handwritten notes tied with leather cord.
A window on the outer wall was covered with thick curtains in a brown and rust weave.
Dani was curled up in a tight ball beneath the furs next to her.
Her hand trembled as she reached out and brushed a strand of dark hair from her sister’s face, studying her in the pale morning light that filtered through the cracks around the curtains.
Dani’s breathing was soft and steady, not the labored wheeze that had become so familiar over the past months or the rattling cough that haunted her nightmares. She was just… breathing, peaceful and even, like a child who wasn’t fighting for every breath.
The greyish pallor from the night before had faded, replaced by something closer to normal. She was still too pale and too thin, but she no longer looked like she was fading away before Jessa’s eyes.
A sob caught in her throat and she pressed her hand to her mouth, muffling the sound as she let the tears come—tears of relief and gratitude. In spite of the storm, in spite of everything, the medicine had worked.
For a long moment, she simply sat there watching her sister sleep and memorizing the steady rise and fall of her chest. Letting herself believe, for the first time in longer than she could remember, that things might actually work out.
Then her stomach growled, loud and insistent, and she remembered that other than the broth she hadn’t eaten since… yesterday morning? The day before? She’d been too anxious to eat before they fled, and there hadn’t exactly been time for a meal during their desperate climb up the mountain.
Moving as quietly as she could to avoid disturbing Dani, she slipped out from beneath the furs.
The stone floor was cold against her bare feet, and she became suddenly, acutely aware that she was wearing one of Tarek’s shirts, its hem falling to just above her knees and the shoulders so wide they kept slipping down her arms.
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 the intimidating 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…”
She trailed off, not trusting herself to continue without crying again.
Something shifted in his face. Not quite a smile, but a loosening of the tension around his eyes.
“Good.” The word was gruff but genuine. “She needed warmth and rest. Both of you did.”
“Thank you.” She set down her spoon and met his gaze directly. “For everything. For letting us stay. For—”
“Why did you leave?”
The question cut through her gratitude like a blade. Her mouth closed with an audible click.
“Your village,” he clarified, though his tone suggested he knew exactly what she’d understood. “You fled during a storm. With a sick child. Something drove you to that.”
Gerhard. Halwick. The bargain I never agreed to.
She looked down at her half-finished bowl. The grain had gone cold while she’d been cataloguing his loneliness, and suddenly she wasn’t hungry anymore.
“It’s… complicated.”
“Most things are.”
She glanced up. He was still watching her, those green eyes steady and patient. He was demanding an answer, exactly, but he was making it clear he wasn’t going to let the subject drop.
He deserves to know, she thought. He’s sheltering us. He has a right to understand what he’s gotten himself into.
“My uncle,” she began, then stopped. Took a breath. Started again. “My uncle Gerhard has been trying to control me for years, ever since our mother died. He didn’t care about us when she was alive. He didn’t want anything to do with me or Dani, but after…”
She pressed her lips together, fighting the old familiar bitterness.
“After she died, suddenly we were his… assets. Our cottage, my mother’s loom, my skills—he saw all of them as things he could use to improve his own position.”
He said nothing, just listened, his expression unchanging.
“I managed to keep him at arm’s length for a while.
I made myself useful enough that he couldn’t push too hard without losing what I provided.
But then Dani got sick, and…” Her throat tightened.
“Medicine is expensive. The kind she needs comes from Port Cantor, and Gerhard made sure he controlled the supply.”
“Leverage.”
The word was flat. Understanding.