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"I'm not."

"You are."

I rolled my eyes. “I could just put you back outside."

His mouth twitched. "There she is."

I turned my back on him and pulled the blanket higher. The silence lasted perhaps thirty seconds.

Then:

"Robin."

"What?"

"You're still shivering."

"I swear to God, Bisbane."

A quiet laugh came from the bed. I closed my eyes, and that was worse. I’d heard him irritated, commanding, amused and angry. I’d never heard Guy Bisbane laugh in the dark.

It was warm.

Low.

Private.

And my traitorous Omega apparently liked it very much. My scent warmed again. The laughter stopped.

Oh, hell.

Neither of us said anything. I stared determinedly at the wall.

Behind me, Guy shifted. Then went very still.

"You say one word," I warned.

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

Another silence.

Then, very quietly:

"Your blanket is on the chair."

I looked down.

The only thing covering me was my cloak.

I hated him.

I should have been planning. I had a wounded sheriff in a cabin my people did not know existed, Fitzwalter's killers combing the valleys below us, and perhaps a day and a half before the thing under my skin stopped being something I could ignore.

Instead I lay on the floor in the dark listening to him breathe.

Listening to the man who had smelled exactly what he did to me and had not once used it to push me somewhere I hadn't chosen to go.