He turned back toward the bed, the night wind stirring the curtains into a restless dance. The room was already growing colder, frost beginning to kiss the edges of the glass and creep along the stone ledge.
Still, the heat pouring from her did not lessen.
His expression darkened.
Even with the northern winds pouring through the chamber, her skin still glowed with feverish warmth, beads of sweat shining along her brow and throat.
He walked back towards the bed. Then he reached for the pitcher resting on the bedside table, dampened a cloth, and laid it carefully across her forehead, his movements still measured, still far gentler than anyone would have expected from him.
"Easy," he murmured under his breath, though she could not hear him. "You're safe now."
Her face loosened up a bit, though not enough to tell she was away from the torment of her nightmares. They were inevitable, yet seeing such discomfort marred her features made his eyes grow cold.
