Morndas, 28th of Sun's Dusk, 4E202
At what point had it all gone wrong?
Vilkas darted to her as Deirdre put a hand to her bleeding neck, her fingers immediately coated in red, her legs giving out beneath her. The vampire had already sprinted past him.
"No no no—Deirdre—"
Had it been just moments ago, when he'd failed to notice she'd been bewitched again? Or moments before that, when he'd opted to stay in the basement with her? Or before that, when he'd fallen for the vampire's illusion the same as everyone else?
She reached for him, collapsing into his arms, tiny and gasping. Her red fingers slipped senselessly from her neck. He ripped the clasp of her cloak open. Her whole shoulder was sticky and hot with blood, more of it pouring down the front of her white shift. Vilkas laid her on her side on the ground, pressing a glove hard to the wound, his other hand fumbling for a healing potion in the pocket on his belt.
"Stay with me—Stay with me, Deirdre—"
Maybe his mistake was not taking her upstairs the moment he'd broken free of the vampire's calm spell. Or maybe the mistake was bigger than that; underestimating the illusionist from the beginning. He hadn't anticipated she'd be able to stop two conscious warriors in their tracks. He hadn't anticipated the illusion spell on the abandoned house, or Deirdre vanishing the second she'd gotten close to it. He hadn't anticipated losing sight of her. He shouldn't have lost sight of her.
He ripped the stopper from the bottle with his teeth and put the potion to her lips, making the hasty decision to let go of her wound to also lift her head up, getting blood in her bright hair.
"You have to drink this," he half-commanded, half-pleaded.
Her eyelids were fluttering, her eyes going in and out of focus. He watched her take a gulp before her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she went totally limp.
"Deirdre!"
He set her head down, pressing his hand to the wound again, panic tearing into his chest. A hot strain built behind his eyes. He couldn't force more potion down her throat; she'd choke. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt.
They shouldn't have asked her to do this to begin with. She shouldn't have felt the need to act as vampire bait. She shouldn't have had to come anywhere near them. He'd promised her she wouldn't even make contact.
"Shit!" he swore through a constricting throat.
He moved his glove lower so he could still apply pressure and began pouring the rest of the potion directly into the wound, his heart beating a frenetic tattoo. As if it were trying to pump blood for her sake. Stupid, useless heart.
They should have paid more attention to her mysterious illness. He'd wasted so much time telling himself she would be fine, and he should stop watching her.
When the first potion bottle was empty, he threw it into the wall, shattering it. He grabbed his only other potion and emptied it, too, completely into her wound. He'd once been told healing potions were only about twenty percent as effective when applied externally. But could it really be considered external when she'd clearly had some major blood vessels opened right in front of him? Was it still external when he was pouring the potion directly into her bloodstream?
"Don't do this to me," he ordered. "Don't do this. Don't you dare bleed to death."
She did not stir. He shook the second bottle, one last drop into her neck. He tossed the bottle aside. Trying to be gentle, but quick, he attempted to swipe away excess blood with his thumb. But there was so much of it; his glove was soaked, fingers making a mess of a mess. He spewed a vehement stream of profanity and used the soiled thumb to continue to apply pressure, and used his other glove to clear a view of the area. The bite was jagged and red, still partially open. Still fresh-looking. But it wasn't spurting blood.
His heart plummeted like a lump of ice. It was difficult to draw a breath, but he forced himself to do so. Steady. Stay calm. Hysteria never helped anyone. It wouldn't help her.
He tugged off his less-dirty gauntlet with his teeth, and pressed two fingers against the uninjured side of her neck.
Please please please please please—
There. A weak pulse. Her heart was beating.
All his breath left him in a pathetic gust.
He grabbed up her cloak, wrapping it around her, picking her up and cradling her as best he could while wearing his damn armor. She was ghastly white. Like a corpse. Her skin was cold.
Maybe it had all gone wrong the day he'd found her in Dragonsreach Dungeon and brought her to Jorrvaskr. When he'd lied and told her it was the safest place in Whiterun.
He turned and ran, practically leaping over the headless vampire who'd tried to carry Deirdre away. He'd been able to see that whole scene, of course. He'd heard her calling his name, heard her fear and confusion. But he'd felt nothing about it, no need to intervene, until the spell had broken.
Disgusting. Unacceptable.
Up the stairs he flew, emerging from the open trap door into a drafty room. Everything in it was coated in a thick layer of dust; the building had clearly been unoccupied for years. Not a bad hiding place for a small coven of vampires trying to lay low.
"Vilkas?" said Kodlak, looking up from what lay before him. He stood over the unmoving body of the illusionist, her skull smashed to a pulp. She still held her book in a clawed hand.
Vilkas blew past him without a word, barely noting the way Kodlak's eyes went wide.
"What happ—"
Aela burst in the front door, barking, "There's no footprints—"
Vilkas shouldered her out of the way and ran outside, boots hitting a fresh layer of powdery snow. Big, fat flakes drifted from the sky, alighting on him, on Deirdre's red cloak and pale hair and ashen, bloodless face. Godsdamned snow. It made the streets slippery, it made the night quiet and insultingly peaceful and bright. He cursed Kynareth for sending it even as he raced toward her temple.
He'd done this once before. She'd been in agony from frostbite spider venom, and he'd been partially to blame. He'd been partially to blame for her injuries in Riften too. By the Nine, was he trying to kill her?
Careless. Incompetent.
When he finally arrived at the temple, he kicked the door open. He ran across the little stone pathway over the decorative pool of water in the center of the room, heading toward the altar at the back. An acolyte was rising from his knees there, turning as Vilkas approached.
Vilkas dashed up to him, displaying Deirdre. "She's lost too much blood. She needs healing now."
The acolyte took one look at Deirdre and his expression cycled from alarm to acute focus. He stepped close and raised both palms, a brilliant yellow glow filling them. A matching yellow aura shimmered up around Deirdre's body.
"What caused the injury?"
"Vampire bite to the neck."
The acolyte again stifled his alarm. The glow around Deirdre increased in intensity. Vilkas watched the wound in her neck knit itself closed, as if it had never been.
"Put her on the table," the acolyte instructed, not lowering his hands, not retracting his healing magic.
Vilkas obediently turned to the nearest of the stone slabs set around the decorative pool and laid Deirdre down.
"Go knock on that door, over there, and call for Priestess Danica. Tell her we need a blood loss recovery potion immediately."
Vilkas did as directed, practically beating down the door the acolyte had nodded to. Priestess Danica emerged in a dressing robe, but the grogginess left her eyes at the mention of a blood loss potion. She retreated and came back with a tall glass bottle.
Vilkas followed annoyingly close as she hastened to Deirdre. She put a hand to the acolyte's shoulder, nudging him out of the way. The acolyte moved to stand at Deirdre's head and Vilkas went around to the other side of the stone slab.
The acolyte had not cut off the healing aura he'd wrapped around Deirdre, and this was not comforting. Vilkas watched, sickened, as Priestess Danica bent to feel Deirdre's neck for a pulse.
She couldn't have died on the way here—
"I'll hold her stable," Priestess Danica said, addressing the acolyte. "Jenssen, wake her up."
Priestess Danica handed Vilkas her bottle as she took over maintaining the healing aura around Deirdre. Acolyte Jenssen knelt to lightly press fingertips to either side of Deirdre's head.
Deirdre's eyelids fluttered open. Vilkas got on his knees and leaned forward, relief and anxiety pulling his body just beyond his control.
"Help her drink. She has to take the entire potion."
Vilkas plucked the cap off the bottle she'd given him. "Deirdre? Are you with me?"
Her head turned slightly, feebly, at his voice, but her eyes were glazed. He slid an arm under her shoulders and propped her up, putting the bottle to her lips. She laid limply against him, but drank without issue. Once he was sure the whole potion was gone, he dropped the bottle aside and heard it roll a ways across the tiled floor.
Deirdre stiffened. She shut her eyes with a grimace. Her hand shot out to grab at Vilkas, latching onto the neck of his armor. Jenssen retracted his hands.
"What's happening?" Vilkas asked.
"It can be a bit uncomfortable," Priestess Danica assured, still bathing Deirdre in her healing spell. "The potion is regenerating a very large quantity of blood, very quickly."
Vilkas put his one bare hand on Deirdre's arm, and watched her skin flush red beneath his fingers. She gasped, curling into his shoulder, and suddenly her arm was searing hot. Vilkas's hand flew up in shock. He made himself touch her again.
"Fever?" he said.
Priestess Danica and Jenssen exchanged glances. Why did they look confused?
Deirdre gave a stilted moan, clutching both hands to her chest, smearing the blood that had poured from her neck. Vilkas touched her face to find her cheek burning, a tear falling against his thumb. Deirdre cried out and dug fingers into the skin over her heart.
"Is it supposed to hurt this much?" Vilkas demanded.
Priestess Danica watched Deirdre intently, a deep crease between her brows. "No. How bad is the fever?"
"She's burning alive," Vilkas snapped.
Jenssen touched Deirdre's neck, fingers twitching in surprise. "Danica," he said warily.
The priestess shook her head. "I'm holding her stable. Go get a fever remedy."
Vilkas suppressed an inhuman growl as Jenssen sped away. Deirdre's hand flew out blindly, again grabbing the neck of his armor, her forehead pressing against his shoulder pauldron, and he realized the metal was probably cool to the touch.
"It burns," she gasped. "Itburnsitburnsitburns—"
"They're getting a remedy," Vilkas said, running his thumb across her cheek. It did nothing to soothe her. Her limbs were jerking, writhing with pain. She started sobbing.
Behind Vilkas, the front door burst open and cold air rushed into the temple.
"Vilkas?" called Farkas's voice, in a panic. "What's going on?"
Vilkas said nothing as his brother approached. He saw Farkas appear out of the corner of his eye, but he did not look at him. He continued uselessly stroking Deirdre's face until Jenssen returned and handed him another, smaller potion. Farkas stood motionless while Vilkas made her drink.
As they waited for the remedy to take effect, Priestess Danica held the healing aura and Jenssen raised his hands to spray a fine ice mist over Deirdre—destruction magic for something other than destruction.
After a full minute of Deirdre continuing to sob, her skin continuing to burn, Vilkas had already lost his patience.
"How long does it take a damn fever remedy to remedy a damn fever?"
"They've never worked on her," Farkas said, sounding more pitiful than the biggest, strongest Companion of the Circle had any right to sound. "Why's she got a fever again? What happened?"
Vilkas clenched his jaw. Priestess Danica and Jenssen individually kept up their magics, and Deirdre clung to Vilkas's armor and writhed and cried and cried. Farkas knelt next to Vilkas at some point, radiating anxiety.
And then, after several minutes that felt like hours, Deirdre inhaled a hitching breath. The tension gradually leached from her body, and the angry flush of her skin faded to a healthier color. Vilkas could actually feel the heat in her cheek recede. Just like that.
What in Oblivion?
He put up his hand to tell Jenssen to stop the ice mist. With the same hand, he swiped a thumb once more over Deirdre's cheek, smearing the trail of her tears. She shivered, fingers loosening from the neck of his armor as she slipped down to lie on the stone slab. Her hand fell feebly atop Vilkas's, on her cheek. Vilkas sat back on his knees.
Priestess Danica asked, "Are you hurting anywhere, lass?"
Deirdre mumbled some syllable, her eyelids heavy and barely open. Vilkas switched their hands around to hold hers, jostling it.
"Can you hear me, Deirdre? Does anything hurt?"
She weakly shook her head and closed her eyes. "No."
Priestess Danica finally lowered her hands, and the glow around Deirdre shrank away. The priestess exhaled, rubbing one of her shoulders, waving her other hand once over the entire length of Deirdre's body.
"I don't sense anything out of place. We should be safe."
Vilkas slumped. He dropped his head to the stone slab, taking his first full breath since the vampire had bitten her. Safe. Not dead. He carefully squeezed her hand, never so glad to feel that her skin was warm. Not cold, not hot. Just warm.
Farkas put a hand on his shoulder in relief and commendation. As if he had done something worth commending. Rolling his head on the stone slab, Vilkas finally looked at Farkas, and saw in his brother's face all the signs of having just experienced deep worry.
What would everyone have done if Deirdre had died? How could any of them have ever forgiven themselves? She was one of their people now. And they'd intentionally thrown her into this situation.
Never again, Vilkas thought.
Deirdre drew her hand from his so she could pull her tangled cloak over her shoulder. Vilkas and Priestess Danica seemed to note this in tandem; Deirdre was still inadequately dressed, and still covered in blood.
"We should take her home," Vilkas said, touching Deirdre's now-covered arm.
"No." The priestess glanced from Farkas to Vilkas. "I want to keep her here overnight. Just to be safe. Was this," and she gestured to Deirdre, "related to the contract I gave The Huntress?"
Vilkas ran his hand up and down Deirdre's arm to create some friction heat, avoiding Priestess Danica's gaze. "The contract is complete. There was a small coven, but they're all dead now. She … led us to them. The last vampire attacked her in an attempt to get away from me."
Farkas flinched beside him, startled by the information.
"Attacked her how?"
"Bit her. Tore into her neck."
Farkas again reacted, moving closer to the stone slab and placing both hands on it. As if Vilkas didn't feel guilty enough already.
Priestess Danica brushed her sleep-mussed hair from her face, glancing to Jenssen. "Then I definitely want to keep her here and monitor for signs of infection. It's just odd. Especially this fever."
Vilkas focused on Deirdre and found her eyes closed. He gently shook her shoulder and she started a little, blinking tiredly up at him.
"Did you hear any of that?" he asked. "Priestess Danica wants you to stay in the temple tonight."
Her lips turned down at the corners. "Rather go home …"
Vilkas had just used the same word—"home." But it sounded different coming from her, and he couldn't name the emotion he felt at realizing this. Whatever it was, he shoved it down.
"Well. You should probably listen to the healer."
She turned her face, burying it against her cloak, muttering something that sounded like "all bloody."
"We'll clean you up, and get you something to wear," Priestess Danica said. "But I'd strongly advise you let us monitor you tonight. Yes?"
"Yes," Vilkas agreed, in a coercing tone more for Deirdre than the priestess.
Deirdre gave a reluctant sigh. She reached out and touched Vilkas's breastplate, quietly asking, "Stay?"
Beneath her hand, something in Vilkas's chest gave a tug. He was abruptly conscious of the three others in the room, watching this interaction. He felt—caught, somehow. But what was he supposed to do? Deny her?
His heart beat three times under her palm. He said, "Sure."
After Priestess Danica led Deirdre away, Jenssen healed the gouges on Vilkas's face and brought him a bowl of water to wash off the blood he'd accumulated—both his and Deirdre's. Vilkas set the bowl between him and Farkas on the stone slab and removed his one remaining, blood-soaked gauntlet. He stared at it before dropping it to the floor in disgust. He ripped off his cuirass and similarly tossed it down. Deirdre hadn't had armor. They'd purposefully sent her out in nothing but her nightclothes.
"We were careless," Farkas said as Jenssen left. "We were supposed to protect her."
Vilkas scrubbed his hands clean in the water bowl. "We were worse than careless. We've dishonored the Companions."
They'd asked her to go in without so much as a butter knife to defend herself. And she'd done it, even though she'd been scared, because she'd trusted them. He'd been right in the worst way when he'd declared this wouldn't be like Riften; it had been much worse. Deirdre would never rely on them again.
Farkas hung his head, uncharacteristically grave. "How did it happen?"
Vilkas rubbed his neck with a damp hand, pulling his fingers away to find them painted bloody. He described the encounter with the illusionist in curt, clinical words while he finished rinsing off what he could.
"Kodlak and Aela said she looked really bad," Farkas confided. "Aela was scared to come with me."
"What are they doing now?"
"Looking over the house."
Vilkas grunted. It was common practice for the Companions to comb a cave or hideout after a contract was complete. Not only did they often find things of interest to their clients, but the practice also yielded trophies, rare potions, enchanted weapons, or the like. Rewards. Things they didn't deserve from this contract.
"Gods above," Vilkas swore under his breath. He flipped the bloodied water bowl so it crashed into the decorative pool.
If she'd died … If she'd died—
He would have given up being a Companion. He wouldn't have been able to still claim the honor that came with the title. He would have left Jorrvaskr, cursed to be a lone werewolf, a beast without a pack or a purpose, haunted by the memory of Deirdre curling up to his side as he'd promised her nothing would happen to her.
Vilkas and Farkas watched the rippling pool, tainted a rusty red from Vilkas's blood, in mutual silence. They sat there for a good while until Priestess Danica came back.
"She's all cleaned up and I've got her a bed. If one of you wants to stay with her, I'm afraid all I've got is a chair." Her eyes swept over Vilkas's discarded armor and the upturned bowl floating in the dirty pool, her lips pursing.
"Vilkas will stay," Farkas said.
Vilkas paused. He did want to stay, both to check on her and because he'd told her he would. But—he wouldn't usually volunteer for something like this. Farkas would. So why didn't Farkas volunteer?
Vilkas got that strange feeling again. Of being caught.
"Maybe you should stay," he suggested. "I can go report to Kodlak."
"She asked you."
"Only because she didn't notice you were there. You're better with her."
Farkas regarded him. In a rare occurrence, Vilkas could not read his brother's face. It almost seemed there was something Farkas wanted to say, or something he knew that Vilkas didn't. He smiled faintly.
"I'll let Aela know she's all right."
He clapped Vilkas on the shoulder and stood. Puzzled, Vilkas watched him walk out the door into the snow-brightened night.
"Well," Priestess Danica said, "she's this way."
Vilkas shook himself. "Hold on." He unfastened his greaves as quickly as he could, gathering his armor and dropping it all in a hasty pile behind the stone slab. He brushed his hands off and nodded apologetically. "Either I or one of my Shield-Brothers will move it later."
The priestess merely waved a hand as if to say the mess didn't matter, though her eyes skipped back to her decorative pool as if it did. She led him further into the temple to a thin door and rapped on it. Deirdre's muffled, weary voice gave permission for them to enter.
The room was cramped and plain, with a narrow bed shoved against the right wall and Vilkas's promised chair (at least it had a cushion) in front of a little square table in the left corner. Deirdre sat on the bed in a new white shift, combing through the ends of her long, long hair. Vilkas hesitated in the doorway as Priestess Danica walked in. He couldn't remember if he'd ever seen Deirdre's hair unbraided before. It appeared damp, so she must have just washed it. He vividly recalled getting blood in it.
Priestess Danica gave Deirdre a quick once-over. "If there's an emergency, come and wake me right away. I'm going to have the acolyte on prayer duty checking on you every couple of hours. If you are infected, we'll catch the early signs and start treatment."
"Thank you, Priestess," Deirdre said.
Priestess Danica patted Deirdre's knee. "Kynareth's blessings are upon you, lass. It's no small fortune to have the Companions watching out for you. If you'd arrived even a few minutes later, things may have turned out very differently."
She gave Deirdre a significant look, and Deirdre returned it with a haggard smile. A sick, leaden guilt pooled in Vilkas's gut.
The priestess left, closing the door with a clunk as Vilkas stood just inside the room. Deirdre worked out a final snarl at the end of a lock of hair, combing through the shiny mass a couple more times to be sure she'd untangled it. This done, she ran her fingers through as well, coming away with several loose strands. She huffed a little and proceeded to wind the hair around her comb. When her tired eyes glanced up at him, her lips quirked.
"I lose a ridiculous amount of hair this way," she ventured, as if to test the silence with something innocuous. "It's amazing I have any left."
It was not amazing, in fact, because she had so much hair she couldn't have even noticed the loss. Her tresses fell in cascades all around her body and pooled on the bed, the dampness dyeing it a shade darker. It looked heavy. And she looked strange. Her hair shouldn't have made such a difference, but somehow it did. Adding to the effect was her too-big shift; it was loose on her frame and too wide and low at the neck, showing more than the usual amount of skin beneath her collarbones. Her eyes were half-lidded and so, so exhausted.
Vilkas averted his gaze. Why did it feel like he'd entered somewhere he shouldn't have? Like he'd trespassed into some ancient storybook tower and come upon an enchanted, eldritch being disguised as a frail young woman? He was somewhere he shouldn't be, seeing things he shouldn't see.
The guilt in his gut grew thicker.
"Why do you wear it so long then?" he asked, walking to the chair. He turned it to face her, taking a seat, eyes on the floor.
After a moment she said, "I've always worn it like this."
He dared to glance up. She was pressing fingers to the hollow of her throat—which he only now realized was an anxious gesture—and had looked away as if reluctant to address the topic further. She had no idea that she'd drawn his attention to her neck, or that the avoidance of eye contact resembled coyness. Vilkas was the only one having such thoughts.
"Did I see Farkas with you earlier?" Deirdre asked, changing the subject.
Vilkas hastily lowered his gaze, fresh disgust at himself joining the cesspool in his stomach. "Yeah. He went to tell the others you're all right."
"Oh."
Did she sound disappointed? He knew it. Farkas should have been the one to stay. She would have been more comfortable with Farkas, because Farkas was inherently more comforting. Vilkas was just the one who'd had the gall to ogle her after letting a vampire nearly tear out her throat.
He dropped his head with an angry sigh, running fingers over his scalp through his hair.
"Vilkas?" Deirdre queried. "What's wrong?"
What's wrong?!
"This shouldn't have happened," he said brusquely, breaking the invisible barrier around the true matter at hand. "That's what's wrong. You almost died. Do you have any idea—"
No, she wouldn't. She couldn't have any idea how horrifying it had been to see her, to feel her, corpselike in his arms. She'd been unconscious for that part. Had she even had time for horror before the blood loss had knocked her out cold? Or had she only had time for pain?
"I know," Deirdre said uncertainly. "But I'm all right now? It's over. Isn't it? Did they get that woman?"
Vilkas gripped his hair in his fingers. "Yes, they got her. But it shouldn't have all gone to shit. You shouldn't have—I should have—" His throat was constricting again. He made an attempt to clear it. "We underestimated her illusion magic. We were idiots to assume all she knew was a sleepwalking spell. When you called out to me, when he grabbed you, I could hear you. I just couldn't—"
He wasn't even saying the right things. He should be getting on his knees and apologizing. To his own ears, his words sounded like excuses. There were no excuses. None for her having to fight off a vampire on her own, and none for them falling for illusions and tricks. No excuses for her blood on his hands.
He heard her slide off the bed. He looked up, lowering his hand from his hair. Deirdre stepped close and put her arms around his neck.
His thoughts ground to a halt. Deirdre ducked her head to press it against the side of his face, taking a soft breath next to his ear. The fragrance of Gildergreen blossoms enveloped him, mingling with her unique scent, warm and magical and Deirdre. He was so caught off guard, it took several seconds to realize she was hugging him. Hugging. Him.
"It wasn't your fault," she said, gentle but earnest. Her arms held tight around his neck and shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. That's—It doesn't make me feel better. It wasn't your fault."
Vilkas's one hand was hovering, paralyzed, and the other sat like a stone in his lap. He could not comprehend either the auditory or the sensory information he'd just received; neither her words, nor the smooth touch of her hair against his cheek. He almost pushed her off.
"I all but let you die," he growled.
"The vampire tried to kill me," she said, unbudging. "You saved my life."
He snapped, "So you're just fine with it. It's over now, and you're not bothered at all."
She squeezed him tighter. "No. I'm—It all just happened so fast. I'm sure I'll have nightmares about it later. I'm not saying I wasn't scared."
Her voice broke on the word "scared," and Vilkas's hovering hand convulsed into a fist. Half a second passed, and the syllable was still ringing in his head, and like a reflex, his hand opened and he drew her into a crushing embrace. He dropped his forehead against her shoulder. He let his hand slide to her back, beneath the waves of her hair, and felt the pounding of her heart flutter under the press of his palm. The heat of her skin seeped into his fingers through the thin material of her shift.
"It shouldn't have happened," he repeated, shocked at how weak he sounded.
Her hand rubbed reassuringly over his shoulder as she took a shuddering breath. Vilkas had no idea who was comforting whom at this point. What he did know, was that the pressure of her arms was unwinding something taut inside him, and her body was unbelievably delicate, and soft, and warm against his chest. And she had not yet tried to pull away. The errant thought came that he was glad he had taken off his armor, and he was glad Farkas had not volunteered to stay. He would never have another excuse to hug her like this. To feel her like this.
Unexpectedly, Deirdre let out a warbly, watery laugh. "Speaking of danger," she murmured. "Do you think I've met my quota for this month?"
It took Vilkas a moment to understand. He grasped her by the arms and pushed her back to see her face, incredulous. Her eyes were shiny as if she'd nearly been in tears, and yet there was humor in them, and in the little smirk on her lips.
"Do you have a quota?" he recalled. "You have to put yourself in mortal peril at least once a month, or you get bored?"
Vilkas turned his face, a snort of laughter escaping him, followed by insuppressible chuckles. He released one of her arms to cover his eyes.
"Gods, I'm an asshole."
"Sometimes," she agreed, clasping his other hand between both of hers. "But I'm not mad about Riften anymore, and I'm not mad about tonight. I chose to do both. So don't blame yourself, Vilkas."
He focused on her hands as the mirth passed. He took hold of both of them, turning them palm-up, picturing these same slender fingers covered in blood. She was right that she'd chosen to help them with the vampires. They wouldn't have forced her.
"Please don't try to meet your quota next month," he said.
She hummed softly. "I think I can do that."
Vilkas nodded, turning her hands back over and wrapping his fingers around them. He looked up. Met her attentive gaze. He frowned.
"You're no coward, Deirdre of Riverwood."
She stared. Vilkas's heart beat three times. And then she blinked, and then she smiled. A radiant, sweet, warm smile that made her eyes sparkle, made the breath stop in his throat, and made the word "beautiful" crowd out every other thought in his head.