Sleep didn't stay dreamless for long.

The darkness shifted, turning cold and biting. Eve was back in the Frostbound Abyss. The blizzard howled around her, the wind tearing at her skin like broken glass. She couldn't see two feet in front of her face.

"Eve! Fall back!" a voice screamed from the snow. She recognized it as belonging to a member of her squad, but the face was a blur of white and red.

A suffocating pressure clamped down on her chest. Something was watching her from the storm. An ancient, malevolent gaze that made her soul shrivel.

She reached for "Rebellion," but the hilt was coated in a thick layer of black frost. It was so heavy she couldn't lift it. A wet, tearing sound cut through the wind, followed by a spray of hot blood that hit her face.

She tried to scream, but the cold stole her voice. A figure stepped out of the blizzard. The build was familiar-broad shoulders, a commanding stance. Bernardo Rowe? The figure leaned in, its mouth moving, but the words were swallowed by the wind. Then, a hand, cold as a corpse, pressed against her chest, right over her heart.

Eve convulsed in her sleep, a strangled cry tearing from her throat.

Cato felt the sudden spike in her temperature. He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She was burning up. He gently shifted her off his chest and laid her back on the bed. He grabbed a rag, soaked it in the bucket of cold water by the door, and began wiping down her face, her neck, and her arms, trying to draw the fever out.

The next few days were a feverish haze. Eve drifted in and out of consciousness, trapped in a loop of freezing nightmares and burning reality. Every time she surfaced, she saw him. He was always there, sitting on the stool, grinding herbs, or feeding her bitter, foul-tasting medicine that coated her tongue and made her gag.

He moved her limbs for her, bending her knees and elbows, massaging the muscles to keep them from wasting away. His hands were relentless, professional, and completely impersonal.

On the fifth day, the fever broke.

Eve opened her eyes. The light from the cracks in the roof no longer stabbed into her brain. She took a deep breath, and while her ribs ached, they didn't scream. She wiggled her fingers. They obeyed. She tried her toes. They moved.

A strange sensation emanated from her legs and arms-a deep, intense itch beneath the skin. It was the feeling of bone knitting back together. She knew what that felt like. But this was too fast. Even for a Paladin with a full reservoir of Aether, recovering from shattered bones took weeks, if not months. Without Aether, it should have been impossible. This wasn't healing; it was regeneration.

It had been five days. Not weeks. Not months. She lay there, watching him, feeling her body rebuild itself at a rate that defied all natural law. A faint, earthy warmth pulsed from the herbal poultices on her limbs, a feeling she didn't recognize as simple medicine. It felt like... life. Raw, potent life force being poured directly into her broken flesh.

She slowly turned her head. Cato was sitting in the corner, a whetstone in one hand and a rusted, broken dagger in the other. He was dragging the stone along the blade with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes focused entirely on the metal.

He wasn't a healer. He was a menial laborer. But the herbs he used had worked a miracle. His medical knowledge was flawless. The questions piled up in her mind, heavy and sharp, but her throat was too dry to ask them.

She lay there, watching him, feeling the impossible mend of her own skeleton. The fever was gone, the nightmares had retreated, and she was wide awake.

Cato stood up, putting the dagger aside. He walked to the hearth and ladled some broth into a bowl. When he turned around and saw her staring at him, clear-eyed and focused, he paused for a fraction of a second.

He walked over and held out the bowl.

Eve looked at the broth, then up at his face. "How long was I out?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse, but it was steady.

Cato didn't answer right away. He set the bowl on the stool and looked at her, his dark eyes assessing her condition. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, rough rumble, like rocks grinding together.

"Five days."

The shadows in the shack lengthened as the sun set. Cato lit the small oil lamp on the table, casting a flickering yellow glow over the cramped space. He went through his routine-checking her splints, applying a thin layer of fresh ointment to her healing wounds, and taking the empty bowl she had finished.

Eve watched him move, her mind sharper than it had been in days. Now that the fog of fever had lifted, the reality of her situation was impossible to ignore. She scanned the tiny room. The four walls were close enough that she could almost touch both sides if she stretched out her arms. There was a hearth, a table, a stool, and the bed she was lying on.

The bed. The only bed in the shack.

A cold knot formed in her stomach. She had been unconscious for five days. Where had he been sleeping?

Cato finished his tasks. He pulled his rough linen shirt over his head, tossing it over the back of the stool. He stood there in a thin, sleeveless undershirt that did nothing to hide the thick cords of muscle across his back and shoulders. He walked toward the bed.

Eve's breath caught. "Wait."

He didn't wait. He lifted the edge of the blanket and sat down on the narrow strip of mattress beside her legs. The wooden frame groaned under his weight. He swung his legs up and lay down on his back, leaving barely a foot of space between them.

The mattress dipped toward him, and Eve felt herself slide slightly in his direction. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

"What are you doing? Get out!" she snapped, pushing herself up on her elbows, ignoring the pull in her healing ribs.

Cato didn't even look at her. He folded his hands over his chest and closed his eyes, his breathing instantly slowing into the rhythm of sleep.

"Are you deaf? I said get off this bed! Now!" Her voice rose, trembling with anger and panic. "Don't you dare touch me!"

He didn't move. He didn't flinch. He might as well have been a stone statue.

Eve was shaking. She wanted to shove him off, but her arms were still weak, and her legs were bound. She was trapped in a bed with a man she didn't know, a man who had barely spoken ten words to her. She felt incredibly vulnerable, her skin prickling with awareness of every inch of his large body next to hers.

"This is where I sleep," she yelled, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. It was a ridiculous claim-she was the intruder here-but she was desperate.

The words seemed to hang in the air. Cato opened his eyes. He turned his head on the pillow and looked at her. The lamplight caught his irises, making them glow with an intense, quiet focus. There was no lust in his gaze, no anger, no mockery. It was just a flat, unyielding statement of fact. This is the only bed. Deal with it.

Eve stared back, her chest heaving. The fight drained out of her as quickly as it had flared. He was right, and she knew it. This was his shack. His roof. His food in her stomach. She had no right to demand anything.

Humiliation, thick and bitter, rose in her throat. She turned her head away, presenting him with her back, and stared at the rough wooden wall. She wouldn't sleep. She would stay awake all night and make sure he didn't try anything.

But the bed was warm, and her body was still exhausted from the healing. The steady sound of his breathing was annoyingly soothing. Hours passed. He didn't move an inch. He didn't roll over. He didn't reach for her. He just slept.

The next night, he did the exact same thing. And the night after that. Eve's protests devolved from screaming, to angry muttering, to sullen silence. She lay there, stiff as a board, acutely aware of his presence, until her body simply couldn't stay awake anymore.

By the fourth night, she stopped resisting. She closed her eyes and let the silence of the shack wash over her, accepting the bizarre, unspoken truce of their shared bed.

The truce held, but sleep didn't come easy. The mattress was nothing more than a thin pad stuffed with straw over hard wooden planks. Every time Eve shifted her weight, a hard ridge of wood would dig into her hip or her shoulder.

A few nights into their silent cohabitation, she rolled over slightly too fast. Her elbow cracked against the solid wooden edge of the bed frame. Pain shot up her arm, sharp and immediate, making her gasp and squeeze her eyes shut.

She didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She just bit her lip and waited for the throb to fade. But the damage was done. The spot would bruise, adding to the mosaic of colors already painting her skin.

She glanced over at Cato. He was lying next to her, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. She thought he was asleep. She let out a quiet, frustrated sigh and tried to find a position that didn't involve a piece of wood stabbing her.

The next afternoon, Cato put on his boots and walked out the door. Eve assumed he was going to his work detail at the fortress. She spent the long hours staring at the ceiling, trying to flex her ankles, plotting her escape, and wondering how she was going to get her strength back.

When the sun began to set, the door creaked open. Cato walked in, but he wasn't carrying water or firewood. He had a massive burlap sack slung over his shoulder. It looked heavy, the fabric straining at the seams.

He dropped it on the floor with a soft thud. Eve watched, her curiosity piqued, as he untied the cord at the top. He reached in and pulled out a handful of silvery-white fiber. It wasn't cotton. It was softer, with a strange luminescence, like spun moonlight. She had never seen anything like it. It smelled faintly of high mountain air and frost.

Eve frowned. This wasn't something you could buy at a market. This was something you found.

Cato didn't offer an explanation. He pulled out a needle, some thick thread, and a few yards of unbleached muslin. He sat down on the stool, positioned the lamp closer to his hands, and began to work.

He was making a mattress pad.

Eve watched, mesmerized, as he stuffed the glowing fiber into the muslin casing. His hands were made for heavy labor-hauling rocks, swinging axes. They were too big for the tiny needle. His movements were slow, not clumsy, but painstakingly deliberate. His brows furrowed in concentration, and he guided the needle through the thick fabric with a surgeon's focus, as if each stitch was a critical suture.

Suddenly, he jerked. The needle had slipped, driving deep into the pad of his index finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up.

Eve held her breath, waiting for him to swear, to throw the needle down, to show some sign of frustration. But Cato just stared at his finger for a moment. He wiped the blood on his pants, picked the needle back up, and went right back to sewing, his rhythm unbroken, his patience as vast and silent as the mountain itself.

He spent the entire night on it. The rhythmic sound of the needle piercing fabric filled the quiet shack. Eve watched the lamplight play over his sharp features, the intense focus in his eyes, the way he stubbornly refused to give up on a task he was clearly unsuited for.

Why? The question pounded in her head. Why go through all this trouble? Why climb to the highest peaks for a mythical plant fiber for her? Why prick his fingers bloody just so she wouldn't bruise against the wood? It made no sense. She was nothing to him. A burden. A criminal.

When the first gray light of dawn crept through the cracks, he tied off the final stitch. He stood up, his joints popping, and walked over to the bed. He carefully lifted Eve in his arms, setting her gently on the stool. He stripped the thin straw pad off the bed and replaced it with the thick, plush pad he had just made.

He picked her up again and laid her back down.

The difference was staggering. The mattress yielded to her weight, cradling her aching bones. The pressure on her hips and shoulders vanished, replaced by a soft, supportive cloud. She felt like she was floating.

Cato kicked off his boots and lay down beside her, his usual routine unbroken.

Eve lay there, staring at the ceiling. The new pad smelled faintly of the sun and the raw, clean scent of the mountain peaks. She turned her head slightly, looking at the side of his face in the dim light. He had closed his eyes immediately, his breathing already slowing.

She didn't turn away this time. She let herself look at him, really look, for the first time since he had dragged her out of the dirt. She didn't understand him. He was a walking contradiction-a menial with the skills of a surgeon, a silent watcher who performed impossible feats for a stranger's comfort.

The fear and the anger were still there, but they were being drowned out by something much more dangerous: curiosity.