It started with Rune. First came the runny nose, then the coughing, and soon the thief was bedridden. His retching punctuated the otherwise silent cistern, which was quickly emptying as guild members migrated to the Ragged Flagon rather than risk catching sick themselves. It was bound to happen at least a few times each winter given the cistern's dampness and location, even if they did keep the place relatively clean, and the sufferer was usually given mead and space to recover. Really though, no one should be abandoned in misery, not even a thief.

"Rune?" Prim ventured. The thief glanced up at her, and she smiled. "Do you need anything?"

"Nah," the thief sighed. "I..."

He inhaled, and Prim worried he would vomit yet again. She stood her ground though, worry knitting her brow together as a finger idly ran across the pommel of the knife at her waist. Guild armor fit snuggly against her, brown hair tumbling over her shoulders and hugging a slender neck. Rune had once said she'd looked regal with that hair pulled up behind her head—a real Nordic princess—and it'd been the first friendly comment toward her in this place. Well, besides Brynjolf's comments, of course. He'd felt like an old friend before she'd even set foot in the cistern, but after meeting Vex and then Mercer, she'd wondered if Brynjolf was an anomaly of some sort. Not so.

Rune dry heaved, and she frowned.

"Let me get you a sleeping draught," she offered.

"That would...thanks," he nodded.

She spun and made for her own bed, across the cistern. The chest beside it was never without a sleeping draught and some brandy. If Delvin ever discovered the latter, she'd need to find a genuine hiding spot. Old booze hound, she smiled.

The chest snapped shut, and she strode across the central walkway, beneath the moonlight filtering down from above. She let the light caress her face and sensed the moon somewhere overhead, calling to the hum of that primal burn deep within her. For a moment, she let the hum increase and closed her eyes. It was rare for the cistern to be so quiet, although she'd sat on the walkway to enjoy solitude and moonlight more than once, after the others were asleep.

Suddenly, another sensation crept up her spine, making the beast inside tense. Oblivion, nevermind the beast. It made her tense. She wouldn't scan the cistern's shadows though—wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching her strain to locate him. She kept her gaze fixed ahead as she returned to Rune and helped him into a sitting position. He offered her money for the potion, but she refused, all the while aware of eyes on her back.

There, near the desk. She spotted him while turning away from Rune, and wondered how long he'd been present. That he could move so quietly and avoid detection unnerved her. Even when her heightened senses could smell him, she couldn't always locate him, reminding her once more that for all her skills, she had much to learn. He certainly liked to remind her of it. Grumpy, arrogant, Mercer Frey.

She took a moment to make sure Rune was comfortable, and then crossed back toward her bed. Mercer was bent over his desk, a finger following a line in the ledger, head bent forward. His hair was graying, although she couldn't think of him as old. His body was lean and his hands quick, his gaze sharp and his tongue sharper. She had been warned to never get into a fight with him, and took the advice seriously.

She changed course, angling toward his desk.

"You were expecting this, I believe." Without ceremony or waiting for a reply, she dropped a ring onto his desk. Candlelight caught an insignia that told its worth.

"So you didn't get yourself killed."

His voice was low, shifting gravel, and in this instance, released with an almost condescending air that irritated Prim. She shifted as his eyes rose to meet her.

"If you're expecting a pat on the back, go find Brynjolf."

"I'm looking for my cut," she leveled.

His gray eyes held hers, and she refused to look away. She could match his stern expression with one of her own, the hum of the beast back.

"You assigned me this job," she continued.

"I don't need you to remind me," he snapped. He was scowling now, or his face was threatening to go that direction in any case. He straightened from the desk, and despite not being a tall man, had several inches on her. It might as well have been a full foot for the force of his displeasure. "I suppose you think you deserve a nice, fat cut for this." He gestured toward the ring.

I do. But she didn't dare voice that aloud. He tossed her a purse, and she balked at its lightness.

"The instructions were to get in and out unseen," he enunciated. "When you do a job correctly, you get the full cut. You're lucky to get anything this time."

"No one..." she began, but quickly bit her tongue. "The maid. Damn it."

But he couldn't know about that so quickly unless he kept a closer eye on his thieves than she thought likely. Was he merely assuming she'd messed up? His lip curled at her confession. Contempt perhaps. Oh damn.

"You didn't know about the maid," she stated.

"I do now. Where does Brynjolf find you people?"

"Anyone else would have given me the full cut anyway, you know."

"I'm not anyone else," he scoffed.

"Clearly."

Their gazes were still locked, and she wondered if Mercer's face could handle a genuine smile. He would look...nice, she decided. She must have paused too long in her contemplation, because his eyebrows rose in question.

"You have something else to say?" he challenged.

"Nothing you want to hear." She pocketed her cut, and despite herself, couldn't be annoyed with him for this one. She'd messed up, pure and simple. "Goodnight, Master Frey."

He didn't return the farewell, and she didn't expect him to. She was almost to her bed when Rune jerked upward in a fit of coughing and gagging. Mercer slammed the ledger shut and made for the graveyard exit.

Sapphire was the second victim. She sat propped against a pillow on her bed, looking pale and pissed. Pissed at Rune, to be specific. The other thief was still recovering, but more mobile than before, and as a result, had taken his lingering coughs throughout the cistern. Vekel had barred him from entering the Flagon, where the crew spent most of their time lately, but that hadn't saved Sapphire.

"I could kill him," Sapphire muttered.

"You'll be better before you know it," Prim assured. "You already look..."

"Stuff it. I look like a hagraven."

Prim smiled and held out a bottle of mead.

"From Vekel. No charge," she grinned.

Sapphire sighed and dropped her head back into the pillows, downing a swig of alcohol. The women were close in age, and increasingly on friendly terms. Prim knew of Sapphire's troubled life—had shared some of her own stories as well—and felt comfortable confiding in her.

"Thanks, Prim," she sighed. "Any good jobs lately? I heard you did one for Mercer last week."

"Oh, that," Prim mused. "He asked me to steal a steward's signet ring."

"He what?" Sapphire looked truly alarmed, her eyes shooting to where Mercer stood at his desk, discussing some matter with Brynjolf. "What was he...? First Goldenglow, now a Jarl's steward?"

"I almost got killed," Prim quietly confessed. "I was clinging to the wall right above a guard's head, and my fingers were slipping. I think I called on every divine in existence. I might have made up a few too."

She cracked a smile at the memory, and pulled her hair over one shoulder to braid. Maybe this is how having a sister felt.

"Mercer hardly ever assigns jobs, Prim," Sapphire whispered. "He usually passes that off to Brynjolf. The smaller jobs don't even go through him. He must have some confidence in your abilities."

"Or want me dead," she smiled, only half-joking.

"Sometimes I think he wants all of us dead," Sapphire returned. She leaned forward with a gleam of conspiracy in her eyes. "Honestly though, he spends more time here since you showed up."

"Bite your tongue," Prim chuckled. "He thinks I'm a pest."

"I'm being serious. With things going the way they are, jobs are less interesting, and Mercer...He used to spend more time here, I hear. This place was always busy. A million things for him to manage. Then everything went to Oblivion. Since you burned Goldenglow though," she shrugged, as if it needed no explanation. "There's been a change. Even Delvin thinks it's a good sign. And if Mercer's giving you jobs, it must be a good thing."

"Or he really wants me dead," she muttered.

"I thought you were used to him?"

"You mean how he's rude and bossy with everyone? Oh yes. But one day," she vowed with a sly smile. "One day he's going to admit that I'm a damn good thief."

"When it snows skeevers," Sapphire deadpanned.

They tried to hold their serious expressions, but quickly broke into laughter. When Prim glanced at Mercer's desk, both he and Brynjolf were watching them. Mercer's face was unreadable, and she wondered if he really thought of her as capable. She'd told Brynjolf about the small cut for the signet ring, and he'd been more irritated than she herself had been—said that Mercer had no business trying to trick her and reduce her pay. But hadn't he also said that the master thief was hardest on those with the most potential? That'd he'd practically kicked Brynjolf's ass up and down the cistern for dumb mistakes when Brynjolf was still wet behind the ears?

"Just keep doing what you're doing, lass. You're doing well, and even he knows it."

"Prim?" Sapphire blanched. "I think I need a bucket."

"Hold on! Hold on!" Prim rushed to retrieve one, but it was too late. She groaned at the mess on the cistern's floor. Did this stuff smell as hideous to people without beast blood?

"I need some fresh air."

Delvin was the third victim. The sickness hit midday, but Prim was unaware from where she sat in the training room, examining one of the chests. Vex said her lock picking needed work, and it was a slow day anyway. She was alone here, illuminated by the glow of lanterns in the room's dingy interior. No sunlight ever reached this room, and it smelled of moisture and earth, dank but not unpleasant. The beast approved and so did she, the scent of someone familiar barely registering as she broke a lockpick.

"Damn," she huffed.

"That's the third one," a voice commented.

"I'm practicing," she tartly replied.

Mercer walked closer, light catching his features and rendering them softer than he otherwise looked. She could see the faint trace of scars on his skin, and wondered where he'd gotten each and every one. Had he once almost fallen on a guard as well?

"Do you need something?" she asked.

"This place is turning into a sickhouse."

"Who's sick now?" she reluctantly asked.

"Delvin."

"So why are you telling me?"

His lips were pressed into a thin line. This was going nowhere good.

"You're the resident sympathizer. Make sure he doesn't retch all over the place."

"Excuse me?"

She stood, unwilling to crane her neck upward any longer, and practically growled at this man who'd rounded the chest and stood far too close for comfort.

"Watch. Your. Mouth," he spoke, voice completely level.

A bout of coughing echoed down the hallway, making Prim's ears twitch. It sounded bad, like Delvin was coughing up fluid as well. Could the sickness be worse on someone a bit older?

"See?" Mercer scoffed, as if sensing her discomfort. "A thief has no business having as much sympathy as you do. It's a wonder you manage to steal anything at all."

"But I do," she sharply replied. "And I'm good at it, incase you haven't noticed."

"You're decent," Mercer corrected. "At stealing. But you're no thief."

Why was he still standing so close to her? Damn bastard with his intimidation techniques. She followed the line of one scar near the edge of his forehead, and felt her skin prickle with his scrutiny.

"I'm a thief," she stated, quietly, as if it were a secret for him alone.

"Would you steal bread from a widowed woman if you were hungry?" No. Her silence made him look vindicated, and she wanted to slap the expression from his face. "Like I said."

He turned to leave, and she grabbed his shoulder, regretting it almost immediately. His hand was gripping her wrist, his face chiseled from stone as anger surged through his eyes. No one would be dumb enough to physically accost the guild master, except her apparently. Her mouth went dry as his thumb dug into the flesh below her palm, but worse then his wrath was the thought of surrender.

"That was foolish," he ground out.

"Let go of me."

"Oh?" he challenged, twisting her arm. She winced and reflexively grabbed his offending hand. He didn't release her though, keeping enough pressure to warn her against trying to escape. She ordered the beast inside to stay dormant, even as blood pounded through her temples. "I'm going to let it go this time," he slowly released. "But never lay hands on me again, girl." He tugged her closer, bringing their faces inches apart. "Never."

"Fine," she blurted. His fingers loosened around her wrist, but she didn't remove her hand from atop his, and his eyebrows rose in question. "You're right."

Keep going while you're burning, an inner voice insisted.

"I wouldn't steal food from someone who needed it. Why would I? Any common thug can do that and feel happy about it. A bandit with a club and the intelligence of a slug could do that. That doesn't make them worth anything. Don't compare me to some lowlife with an empty stomach."

"A thief with standards?" Mercer questioned. His voice and expression revealed nothing of his thoughts on the matter, not a trace of contempt visible as he regarded her. She suddenly felt more uncomfortable than ever in his presence, sensing something much deeper in his eyes than she'd seen before, and damn but she couldn't look away. The beast wasn't even growling anymore, as if his change in tone had stilled all the world and her with it.

"A thief without the heart of one," he coldly considered. "Yet." She suddenly remembered her hand and removed it from him, allowing him to step back. "You speak far too well for a street child," he observed. "You've never had to steal to feed yourself in your life, have you?" He removed himself from the lantern light and disappeared into the shadows. "See Brynjolf. He's got a job for you." Pause. "After you see to Delvin."

Damn, blasted, frustrating, thief.

The cistern really was turning into a sickhouse. Delvin, who could apparently still flirt with the best of them while incapacitated, had not yet recovered, and already both Brynjolf and Vex had come down with a fever. This was getting ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, lass," Brynjolf grumbled. "You really don't need to clean that up."

"Someone has to do it," Prim countered.

"You're going to get sick yourself."

He really was endearing, and seemed genuinely interested in the welfare of the thieves beneath his watch. She considered him a good man, albeit a thief. Delvin had mentioned him joining as a stripling, which meant he'd spent most of his life in the guild. No wonder he was fighting so desperately to keep the place and their dwindling numbers together.

"I'm out of sleeping draughts," she apologized.

"Don't you worry about that," Brynjolf smiled. "Why do you always have so many anyway?"

She hesitated, shrugging her shoulders as a memory of pain and glowing eyes flashed through her mind. A hand reached out and touched her.

"You don't need to tell me, lass. I was just curious."

"It's alright," she dismissed. "I guess we all have our share of bad memories, right?"

He nodded and retracted his hand. Delvin was in the bed next to him, and was grinning like a fool in their direction.

"Prim," he called. "Don't you worry about catching sick. I'll take care of you."

The wink he added for effect made her chuckle.

"I'm sure you will, Delvin. Brynjolf," she grinned, turning to the red-headed thief. "Don't you dare let him near me if that happens."

"Hey!" Delvin protested.

"You have my word, lass."

She finished cleaning the area, and left fresh buckets for her patients. To be fair, Tonilia was supplying discounted potions for anyone who needed them, and Vekel delivered food to those stuck in bed, but most of the work fell on her. How it had happened, she wasn't entirely sure, Mercer's order notwithstanding. She would have helped Delvin without instructions to do so anyway, because he'd needed it, and because despite his flirtations, he looked out for her just like Brynjolf did.

Almost like a family.

The thought stopped her cold. Family was perhaps too strong a term. She didn't know very much about these people, or what they'd done in their past that might make her wary of trusting them. They hadn't fought to save her from the Silver Hand or other enemies as the Companions had. Divines knew Mercer probably wouldn't jump to her rescue. The thought was almost laughable, and a streak of cynicism that was oddly reminiscent of the man crept up her spine. Did he trust any of them? One had to be careful, she knew, but to be guarded all of the time?

"You look lost in thought," someone commented. Cynric.

"Hmm?" The thief smiled, and she quickly came back to herself. "Just thinking," she dismissed. "About something I should stop thinking about so much." That man would not worm his way into her daily thoughts. "I need a job."

"Not much of that going on with Delvin and Brynjolf sick. Maybe Vex has something for you. She's still in the Flagon, refusing to admit she's sick."

"Maybe," Prim agreed.

"Or Mercer," he continued. "But he hasn't been in for three days. Says this place is a pit of vomit and grime."

"Speak of a daedra," Prim bemoaned, hearing the faint sliding of rock. Cynric gave her a peculiar look before Mercer himself strode into the room.

"You've got some senses," Cynric noted with appreciation. "Even I didn't hear him coming." Mercer eyed them, and the Cynric gave a short, playful bow of his head. "See you later, Prim."

She nodded as Mercer passed by, his scent smothering her. He smelled like leather and approaching storms, and something that was uniquely him. She'd know it anywhere, but something wasn't quite right this time, like the smell of milk right before it soured. The faint scent was all too familiar lately, and she wondered whether it truly was coming from him, or whether she'd been tending the sick so long that she smelled it everywhere.

"Do you have any jobs that need done?" she asked, following him.

"Talk to Brynjolf." Mercer glanced to where the Nord was sprawled, paused, and closed his eyes as if fighting a wave of annoyance. "Talk to Vex," he corrected himself.

"She'll give me something petty just to keep me busy."

Prim followed Mercer to his desk, quite certain that his scent was off.

"So you think you're too good for the little jobs?" he scowled. "I'm sure Vex will love to hear about that."

"No," she instantly denied. "Of course not. I just thought you might have something that needed done since so many are..." She motioned over her shoulder.

"Puking their guts out?" Mercer offered.

"Exactly. Vex has a fever too, you know."

He considered her with a hard expression, making her think that maybe this was a mistake. He might be thinking up something truly unpleasant for her to tackle. Perhaps Vex would have something of interest after all, but she wanted a job from Mercer, and the realization made her mildly uncomfortable.

"Did you find out what the symbol on the Goldenglow contract means?" she tried, suddenly intent on distracting him from the idea of a job.

"I'm working on it," he gruffly replied.

"I wouldn't want to be on the end of Maven's wrath." Why was having a normal conversation with this man painfully difficult? He was studying her, watching her pull at strings with a why-are-you-bothering expression. "Although I'm sort of happy about the whole thing. The bitch could use a slap in the face."

"That estate was our largest source of revenue," he reminded her.

"Maybe we should find something that doesn't involve Maven."

"Brilliant," he sarcastically drawled. "Please, share more of your ideas, or maybe go get a job from Vex and earn your keep. I have more important things to do."

"Not for long," she stated, only realizing how very threatening that sounded after the words were out. She could see the hackles on Mercer rise, the shock of her words quickly wearing off as their implication turned his eyes darker. "I mean," she fumbled, "Not like that. I only meant that you're going to get sick. Sick!" For emphasis, she pointed to where Brynjolf and Delvin were.

Mercer frowned, but didn't respond. It was damn strange thing to assert, she realized. He, after all, could not know that he smelled sick, and she wasn't about to reveal her beast blood to anyone, especially him.

"You look like you're developing a fever," she said.

"And you, who have been here with the invalids the entire time, are not getting sick," he retorted, but without bite. "I'm fine. Go mother someone else."

He'd forgotten about her request for a job. Good.

"Very well." She rolled her shoulders as nonchalantly as possible, unable to resist one last comment as she strolled away. "But you are going to be sick."

Mercer Frey was sick. He could walk and talk as smoothly as he wanted, but Prim wasn't buying any of it. He'd been at his desk most of the day, handing out jobs now that even Vex was bedridden, but by early evening, he looked noticeably pale. Like Delvin, who was devoted to Vex's bedside despite the woman's protests, Mercer was showing more intense symptoms. That he hadn't succumbed to retching yet was a miracle.

A waning miracle, Prim decided as she watched him head for the exit. He was taking his leave before the worst of it struck, probably cursing them all to Oblivion for passing the sickness along in the first place. She was quite certain that she herself would already be sick if not for her beast blood and its natural resistance to most disease and sickness. Unfortunately for Mercer, guild masters were not equally immune, not even the grumpiest ones.

"Delvin," she called. "Can you take over a moment? I'm going to step outside."

"Sure," he waved off, as pleased as Vex looked distressed.

Prim stole out the cistern's back door, and paused in the graveyard beyond. Stars twinkled overhead, and night bathed the city, fresh air flooding her with relief. It had been a long time since she'd taken an evening off for herself, although she had to wonder what she was doing. Was she really going to follow Mercer? The man deserved to end up prostrate along the street, retching and cussing anyone who happened by, but the thought wasn't nearly as amusing as she wanted it to be. What if someone dangerous happened upon him in such a state? What if Maven saw him and thought the guild weak?

What if he guts you for following him?

Rational thought told her to return inside and leave it be. Mercer wasn't like the other guild members. He was their leader, not their friend and certainly not their protector, not in any personal sense. Not once had he offered her a kind word or congratulated her for a job well done. He only gave her the hardest jobs, and sometimes she swore he went out of his way to bait her. The day he'd given her the smallest cut of her life, had he wanted her to call his bluff? To argue with him? Not even Vilkas was so difficult to understand.

"He's not going to thank me," she mumbled to the heavens.

She strode through the graveyard, following Mercer's scent beneath the Temple of Mara's walkway. The path was all shadows as she passed along the columns, thinking that perhaps Mercer had been quick and was already home. Too late, she heard movement to her right, and a hand wrapped around her mouth from behind, another grabbing her dominant hand and forcing it against her side. She swung backward with her free arm, driving her elbow deep against someone's ribs.

Her attacker inhaled roughly, but did not release her, making her teeth lengthen with the threat of transformation. She already knew who had her, but adrenaline pumped through her, and when her teeth captured a finger, she didn't hesitate to bite down.

"Stop struggling!" a voice hissed.

She tasted blood, and fought back disgust at her own eager reaction to it. Not here. Not with him. Her teeth returned to their normal size, and she prayed that Mercer's wound wouldn't reflect anything unusual. Wiping him from her mouth, her back remained pressed against him, his arm wrapped firmly around her middle. He must have been inspecting his bite.

"You shouldn't have grabbed me," she spoke.

"You were following me," he darkly replied, pushing her away from him. She spun, indignant. "That's a good way to get killed."

"I was..." Following you to make sure you didn't collapse in the street? He wouldn't respond to that very well, she was sure.

"You were what?" he sneered.

"You're sick, Mercer. It was worse with Delvin. He's taking longer to recover than the others."

"Ah, yes. I'm not as young as say, Brynjolf, so you think I'll drop over dead."

She was taken aback by the constrained venom in his voice. She was a fool a thousand times over for rushing after him.

"I don't think you'll drop over dead," she sighed. "I was just going to make sure you were at Riftweald. That's all."

"You were going to make sure I got home safely?" he sounded almost incredulous, and yes, when he phrased it like that, it did sound rather stupid.

"You could say that," she admitted.

Mercer made a faint noise that she couldn't define, shocked when it built into a low chuckle. It was brief and more than a little mocking, but it was the closest she'd probably every hear him to laughter. In the darkness, she peered at his face, a faint trickle of moonlight catching the sardonic curve of his mouth.

"Go back to the cistern, Prim."

He had never called her by name before. This was turning out to be a very odd night indeed. Maybe the sickness was interfering with his thought process. He strode away from her, pausing to rest a hand against the wall and inhale sharply. He was fighting back a fit of coughing, and after a moment's hesitation, she stood by his side, a hand against his forehead.

"You're burning up," she stated.

"And you're going to see me home?" he mocked.

"Divines protect me, I think I'd better." He pulled away from her and continued walking, but didn't yell at her for keeping near his side. Maybe it wasn't worth the energy to do so. She didn't dare touch him again though, not unless he stumbled, which he didn't. How he could remain upright and look at ease with such a high fever was beyond her. She could only attribute it to his stubbornness.

He unlocked the door to Riftweald manor and stepped inside while her feet remained frozen on the threshold. One glower told her it was time to leave, but Mercer never had time to bark the order or even shut the door in her face. His pale face twisted, his breathing labored. At least he'd made it inside before the worst symptoms hit. Prim lost no time entering and shutting the door behind her, sighing as her guild master vomited in the entryway of his home.

"I'll take care of it," she assured him. "Do you have a bucket?"

He gestured toward the kitchen before returning both hands to the wall, bracing himself against it. He was still posed there, breathing heavily, when she returned with the item.

"Here. For the next round." He grunted and took the bucket from her, glancing at her suspiciously. "You should probably get in bed," she continued.

"And what exactly will you be doing?"

"Do you really think I'm going to steal anything?" she questioned, irritated by the suggestion. "Hide your gold in the cistern perhaps?"

"Smart mouth," he glowered.

"I'm going to clean this up and get a stomach potion. The alchemy shop should still be open."

He gave her a long, hard look, and she was surprised when instead of kicking her out, he brushed by her, his footsteps sounding heavier than usual as they moved upstairs. He hadn't killed, maimed, or shouted at her, although it took her a moment to realize that. A smile almost touched her lips before she swatted it away. There was nothing triumphant about cleaning Mercer's stomach contents off the floor.

She finished downstairs and bought the required potion using money she found in Riftweald. It was, after all, for an ungrateful man, and she wasn't about to expend her own coins on it. Back inside the manor, she mounted the stairs and was struck by how impersonal the space felt. She hadn't expected anything lavish, maybe a bit more treasure scattered about, but no, sparse furnishings and practicality ruled the place. It suited Mercer, she decided, who made no acknowledgement when she stepped into the bedroom.

The man was sprawled across the mattress in a tunic and pants, his armor tossed onto the floor. It was too dark to see his expression, although she knew he was watching her. He'd probably been following her movements through the house lest she stray somewhere uninvited. She was tempted to leave the room to the dim lighting of the moon, which shone through the window, but finally lit the candle on his bedside table.

"I didn't know you had magic," he said.

The flame that had been dancing on her fingertip vanished as the wick caught.

"Only a little," she dismissed. "Here's your potion."

He drank it without comment, the bucket on the floor beside him. He looked more human than she could ever recall, less guild master and more commoner. The light caught silver and blond, and the grizzle along his jaw. He was rarely clean-shaven, usually sporting various stages of scruff, and she preferred him that way for reasons that defied explanation. A completely primmed look simply wouldn't fit him, and although he wasn't handsome like Brynjolf, for a moment, she preferred his stormy eyes.

"Who's the guy lurking in the yard?" she asked.

"Vald. My guard."

"I guess I should tell him you're sick and be off."

"No," Mercer snapped. "You're not going to say a word to him or anyone."

"I'm not leaving you here unattended," she frowned. For once, she was standing above him, and judging by the way his jaw was set, he hated it. "You weren't there when Delvin had the worst of it," she elaborated. "It was bad. Really bad."

Mercer scowled at the ceiling above him, and she had the absurd notion to smile. When he remained that way, she found a chair near the window and sat, gazing outside. She heard him shift against the blankets and vomit, but ignored him, worried that the uneasy peace between them would shatter at any moment.

"Are you going to sit there all night?" he questioned.

"Maybe," she yawned. "Do you need anything?" Wrong phrasing, she immediately thought. "Can I get you anything? I should probably see to your finger."

She rose and glided toward him, hands clasped in front of her. Of all the ridiculous things I could do, she ruefully thought. Being in a manor like this, with curtains pulled back from around a grand bed made her recall old ways—old habits from a different time in her life. Mercer stared at her with another of his unreadable expressions.

"You're from a wealthy family," he concluded. Her clasped hands fell to her sides. "Someone trained you in proper etiquette." He lifted his wounded finger and examined it. "Not a proper lady anymore, are you?"

A sense of fear rose in her. The bite mark on his finger could have easily come from normal teeth though. There was no way he was alluding to the more wolfish part of her life, and she made sure her stern expression revealed nothing.

"Maybe," she relented. "But even ladies might bite when a thief grabs them in the dark. I'll be back. Don't go anywhere." The last part irked him, and she knew it. She even delighted in the slight irritation she'd caused him as she gathered materials and returned to him, tentatively sitting on the edge of the bed. It was soft and comfortable. No wonder he never slept in the cistern.

She set a dish of water on the nightstand, and dipped a cloth into it.

"May I?" She kept her voice firm, showing no emotion as she took his hand and gently cleaned it. She was desperate to get a good look at the markings as blood washed away, and satisfied, wrapped his finger in linen. She was not surprised to see the pommel of a dagger sticking out from beneath his pillow, nor that he kept his gaze fixed on her the entire time.

"You might be in the wrong profession," he commented.

"Do you think I should be a healer?" she joked, shaking her head as she released his hand. "I think I prefer being a thief. A real thief," she emphasized at his unconvinced expression. "You know very little about me, Mercer Frey. I suggest you remember that." He made a low, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. It was the best she'd probably get. "Goodnight."

She moved toward the chair.

"No," he stated. "You're going back to the cistern."

"I already said..."

"I heard what you said, and you're not staying here. I need sleep, not a nursemaid."

She balked, but felt an invisible line being drawn across the floor. He looked much better now, since taking the potion. There had been enough money laying about to buy the best medicine available. Maybe she shouldn't push her luck. He was even being rather civil about the order, and why should she insist on staying anyway?

"Alright," she agreed. "What if I stop by with another potion in the morning?"

"Do whatever you want," he growled. "Just keep your mouth shut and let me rest."

She memorized the look of him laying like that, with his hair fanned out across the pillow, and a calm expression on his face. The image lingered as she departed and turned back toward the graveyard, quite certain that if she ever dared step foot in his house again, she did so at her own risk.

Or maybe not.

She wore the vaguest of smiles as she entered the cistern, the key to Mercer's house firmly in her possession. She didn't plan on giving it back.