“I didn’t cry,” I hiss, embarrassed. Tears are weakness, and I hate showing weakness to this cretin.

“I saw you were having trouble with it,” he says, his words slow and measured, his gaze locked on me. “So I took it apart for you and put the wood in the kitchen below, by the hearth. You would have seen it if you’d gone downstairs.”

I blink, taken aback. I hadn’t thought to go downstairs to look. I’d simply asked my knife if he’d taken the sled, and the answer was yes. I hadn’t thought to ask why he’d taken the sled, or where it was at now. “You made it into firewood for me?”

“I broke it down into easily manageable pieces, yes. You should be able to burn them now.” He shakes his head. “Whoever sent you your supplies needs to be drawn and quartered. To think that they sent you sixteen trunks of dresses and nothing to burn.”

Rude man.

He’s right, of course, but it’s still rude to point it out. “I suppose your people did a lot better for you?”

“I suppose they did, yes.” He gestures behind him, and I can see a massive stack of firewood, the logs jammed into place as high as the ceiling. He has wood downstairs in the kitchens, too, so this must be an additional supply. It’s revolting to see how well stocked his quarters are. In addition to the food downstairs, he’s got some hidden away up here, too. Shoved in-between books and wooden cases, I see more wheels of cheese and what looks like a board full of growing mushrooms standing up in the corner of the room. Bushels of dried leaves hang from the ceiling, and I’ve no doubt that he’s got more than enough supplies to allow him to ease through the winter and spring, until the next solstice.

Whereas I’ve been chewing on stale, raw turnips and shivering under my blankets. So that’s fun.

I sit up and he immediately moves, fluffing a pillow behind my back. It’s a rather touchingly sweet response and makes me feel guilty. Here he is, this big, vicious-looking enemy warrior, making sure I’m comfy in his bed. I glance over at him. “I don’t suppose you have any more water?”

“I do. And soup, if you’re hungry.”

I nod, because I don’t trust my voice not to shriek out yes, yes, please, I’m starving.

He hands me a wooden cup full of water and I force myself to take tiny sips even though I want to gulp the whole thing down. As I drink, I watch him move across the room. His fireplace is flickering, and there’s a small pot over the flames. He stirs the contents with a ladle and then fills a second wooden cup with what smells like soup. My mouth waters, and at this point, if he pulled his cock out and told me I had to suck it to share his food, I’d gladly do so. I’m that hungry.

But he only sits down on that stool again and holds the soup out to me. He doesn’t ask for anything.

Warily, I take the cup from him, trading my empty water cup for the food. “This isn’t poison, is it? Because with my luck, it’d be poison.”

Nemeth rolls his eyes at me. He crosses his arms over his bare chest—still wearing nothing but his leather kilt with the decorative metal studs, I notice—and considers me. “Why would I nurse you back to health only to poison you?”

“Because it hurts more that way.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Remind me to get tips from you on how to torture the enemy. I think my people could learn a thing or two.”

I take a sip of the soup. Gods, it’s good. There’s a warm spicy taste to it that I don’t recognize, but the majority of the flavor is mushrooms and savory bits of meat. I don’t have any mushrooms in my supplies, so this is clearly from his stock. I eye him as I take another sip. He seems relaxed and at ease, watching me with curiosity instead of resentment. And he made me dinner.

This feels like a trick.

It has to be a trick, or else I’m an absolute arse for trying to kill him. Either he truly is as kind as he’s pretending or there’s an ulterior motive. Right now I’m too tired to figure it out, though…and his soup is too good.

I finish the soup quickly and hold the cup out for more. He shakes his head. “Give yourself a few hours, and then you can have more. You should eat small meals until we’re certain your stomach can handle it.”

It makes sense, even if I don’t want to hear it. With a sigh, I nod and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I should get going anyhow.”

A big hand covers my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

I look up at Nemeth in surprise. “Getting out of your way?”

He shakes his head and that enormous hand stays on my shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere until I’m certain you’re feeling better. You can sleep in my bed for another night.”

It sounds like a good idea to me, because not only is his bed comfortable, but I’m too tired to consider walking up all forty stairs to my room. “Where will you sleep?”

“The same place I slept last night.” He nods at the spot on the bed next to me.

I should protest that it isn’t seemly, but honestly, it just makes sense. If I’m not kicking him out of his bed, I’m all for it. “All right,” I say lightly. “But if you try anything, I will projectile vomit on you.”

He rolls his eyes and offers me a hand. “Do you need help getting to the garderobe or can you manage on your own?”

Just the thought of crossing the hall to relieve myself sounds exhausting, but I will absolutely be humiliated if I have to use a chamber pot in front of him. “I can manage…just give me a moment.”

Nemeth just eyes me. “Very well. If you need help, just ask. I know you’re not inclined to do so, but I will offer it all the same.”

“You’re too nice,” I mutter. “I don’t trust it.”

“Should I hold a knife to your throat as you drink your soup? Will that make you more comfortable?” His hard face creases with amusement.

“Very funny.”

“I thought so. If you’re feeling better, perhaps you might answer a few questions of mine.” He tilts his head, regarding me, and those horns draw my attention. So strange to see hard, thick horns there instead of soft, waving hair. It reminds me that however friendly he is, he’s not human.

Not even close, and I shouldn’t let my guard down. “You can ask.”

“Why did you want to kill me?” His teeth flash, a hint of white fang showing. “I assume that’s what you were trying to do, no matter how poor of an attempt it was.”

Twist the knife, why don’t you. I scowl at him, hugging his blanket to my chest. “So I could keep your supplies. I thought that was obvious.” I gesture down at my chemise. “Did you undress me while I was unconscious?”

“Yes. I thought that was obvious,” he says, throwing my words back into my face. “If you wanted something of mine so badly, why didn’t you just ask me for it? Have I proven myself so craven that I wouldn’t share? That I would let you starve while I fill my belly?”

He looks so very indignant that it startles me. How can he sit there and say that I’m in the wrong? That I assumed the worst of him? Of course I did. Not only is he a Fellian, but he’s proved himself to be a thief. Twice. “You stole my sled. You stole my knife. Why would I think you were going to share anything when you’re stealing what little I have?”

Nemeth sits back on his stool. He looks utterly flummoxed. “You think I stole from you?”

“I know you stole from me.” I point an accusing finger in his face. “No one else is here, remember?”

He runs a hand down his face, and I can’t help but notice that they’re oversized, like boulders. His feet are overly large, his thighs massive, but I thought his hands would be normal sized, like a human’s. His proportions are all wrong, though. With both hands, he could probably span my waist, and I’m a plump, rounded sort. If he raised a fist, it’d be the size of my head. “You think I stole from you.”

“You did. You stole my blade⁠—”

“You left it on the floor and it had fallen into a dark corner. I didn’t think you would find it on your own, so I retrieved it and kept it safe. You never came to ask for it back.” His tone is dangerous. “If you would have checked with me before jumping to conclusions, you would realize that I have never meant ill for you.”