She took him into the forest.
And she taught him, as she might a Dalish child, to read the wind's fickle currents, to leap from tree to tree across the canopy of the forest, to read the footprints of halla and wolves and even werewolves, to step gently and soundlessly on the springy ground.
It awakened something in him and he wondered if all elves had this hidden affinity for wilderness, for the verdant canopy of the forest and the secret wonders of its inhabitants.
He tried to repay her the only way he knew how, that night, with an offer of the kind of massage one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse.
She hesitated. He ran a thumb over her lips and she parted them just enough for him to feel the heat of her breath, the wetness of her mouth.
She wanted him, that much was obvious. Zevran was of course an expert at reading such signs, but even if he wasn't, he would be able to pick up on this.
She pulled away.
"Not tonight," she said, her silky steel voice hesitant, uncontrolled. It was not the voice of the woman who commanded their ragtag group thorough sheer will. It was soft, uncertain.
"Of course," he said. "I am sorry if I offended you." Zevran surprised himself by being hurt.
"No," she said. "Never. I…I want to be with you."
"Then let me pleasure you," he said. "I assure you, I am quite skilled in such matters."
Once, Zevran had come upon a sparrow, a strange sight in the city streets. Although he was hungry, and not well fed, he'd held out the crust of his bread to the bird. It had regarded him, head tilted, hungry but afraid.
Much as Eve was regarding him now, her want clearly visible in her eyes, making them so dark the iris was as black as the pupil.
"I will not hurt you," he said. "I gave you my oath, and I will not go back on it."
"I know."
She took a deep breath, let her eyes run over the curves of the tattoos on his face, soft and sweeping like brushstrokes, so different from the intricate lines that webbed her own face.
"I am sorry," she said, and darted away, back to the safety of the campfire and her company, leaving Zevran confused.
It had been months since someone shared his bed, and the absence of physical contact left an aching he recognized from childhood. He was tempted to slip into Leliana's tent some nights, for when the bard glanced at him over the campfire, her eyes were full of understanding. And yet he held back.
For in truth he desired only the Warden.