The cold mountain silence behind the thick walls of centuries-old pine logs was not absolute. It was broken by two sounds, penetrating the consciousness through the veil of forced oblivion. The first was the dull crackle of the flame in the belly of a massive cast-iron stove standing in the middle of a cramped little room. The second was the mournful howl of the wind, driving furious streams of snow into a tiny frosted window, beyond which reigned the white fury of the storm.

Then the multi-layered bouquet reached the sense of smell: the tart smoke-stain of old metal, the acrid sharpness of spent gunpowder burned into the fabric, the salty tint of sweat, and the genuine, rough male strength—his ever-present trail. And on top of all this, the intrusive, oddly life-giving aroma of heated tinned meat.

Consciousness rose from the bottom, like a snow-covered beast unwilling to leave the warmth of oblivion. Heavy eyelids fluttered, and the world rushed in—the flame struck first. Its living reflection slid from behind the grate of the stove door, flared across your eyes and seared them, forcing you back into the dark for a second.

Warmth. It rolled in lazy waves from the low ceiling, soaked the rough wooden floorboards, seeped into the coarse fabric of the army blanket that covered you on the hard camp cot. However, this heat saved and tormented. It warmed the body, but drove into the soul the memory of the one whose pain became your salvation.

You stirred, and the creak of the cot's springs beneath the thin mattress sounded deafeningly loud.

A sharp rustling sound came from the direction of the stove. A shadow that had occupied nearly all the free space in the tiny hunter's cabin detached itself from the log wall and took on flesh.

Phillip Graves.

He stood with his back turned, like a figure carved from granite, blocking out a good half of the stove's fiery glow. The man was dressed in practical dark thermal underwear, clinging to the sculpted muscles; the sleeves were deliberately rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms criss-crossed with fresh scrapes and darkening bruises. His broad back was tense to the limit, and his fists, clenched at his sides, were clearly white at the knuckles. He knew you were awake.

He was angry. You had betrayed him. You had betrayed your father, General Shepherd. And even though war had long since burned any sense of morality out of Phil'a heart, you had somehow splattered everything he believed in with garnet stains. When everything had collapsed, and Shepherd's position had turned into a living hell, where the general himself no longer saw you as an ally (let alone his offspring, obviously), but as a threat to be eliminated immediately, Phillip damn well chose you.

Propping yourself up on one elbow, you shrugged off the blanket. The movement was involuntary. He felt it with his whole being. And slowly, with almost ceremonial inevitability, he turned.

The man looked at you in silence. Phil studied your face, with the shadows of insomnia under your eyes, with a light scratch on your cheekbone. He once again saw in you, without embellishment, the fragile vulnerability of the soul which he himself, in spite of everything, considered necessary to protect. The man still cursed the day when he fell into your nets and agreed to this stupid adventure as if he were a schoolboy, to start a secret romance with you.

And at the end of all this absurdity, Phillip became the tormentor of your soul and the unwitting saviour of your heart. But you… who were you to him?

The ticking of the drawn-out seconds was interrupted by a growing hum. The old, sooty teapot he had placed on the hot surface of the stove began to hiss. Nearby, in a wide-open tin can, the stew began to bubble, releasing a smell even thicker and more maddeningly tempting. Your stomach betrayed you (and God, how loudly) with a hungry growl.

And only then did he break the speechlessness between you both.

"Well, ain't you just the goddamn sleepin' beauty," he grumbled in a smoky voice. "You gonna eat, or what?"