Chapter 7

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.