A/N: The next chapter of RftC is giving me all sorts of grief, so I indulged in another one-shot in hopes it would blast away my writing troubles. This one takes place after Saemus Dumar's death, just before the Qunari showdown in Act 2, although I filched some dialog with Bran that happens after Hawke is made Champion. I bumped the rating up to M now. Some potty mouth, some alcohol, and some sexy fooling around, but worthy of an M rating.

Thanks for the reviews! As always, I love hearing from those of you reading. Please keep the comments coming! Have an idea or scene in the Chains universe, during or after the end of the game, you'd like to see turned into a one-shot? Let me know, and I'd be happy to try to write it. Thank you to my friend, Biff McLaughlin, for her awesome beta skills. She's a fic-saver extraordinaire for sure! Any typos are my fault due to my inability to stay away from the keyboard.

Warmth in Cold Places

"I seem to recall you being very critical of Saemus before." Finola tapped her toe while waiting for Bran's reply as he stood with arms crossed, staring down at the main entryway to the Keep.

After a few moments of silence, Bran couldn't think of a comment to counter her assertion. He only hung his head and sighed. "You don't watch a child become a man and not feel something when he is lost. We had some spirited discussions, sometimes he challenged me on this or that, and I'd scramble to avoid offense." He laughed somberly with a slight shake of his head.

"Oh, I… I didn't realize you were close," she said, feeling slightly guilty about her disapproving tone.

Bran looked away, gazing down toward the massive wooden doors of the Keep again. "His loss will have an effect, of that I am certain."

"I agree, and I'm sure when I meet with the Arishok tomorrow to retrieve the two elven converts, he will confirm that effect." Finola rubbed her temples at the thought. "Anyway, I still can't believe Dumar couldn't bring himself to go to the Chantry to look for his own son. Neither one of them was thinking clearly." Finola shook her head. "What was wrong there?"

"Saemus was looking for something his father couldn't offer him, and I could never fault him for that. Dumar was thinking of Kirkwall, but as a father myself, I didn't agree with Dumar's lack of action."

"Even so, I can't help but think Saemus was partially to blame."

Her flippant remark made his blood run cold. "A man's child is dead, a boy who ran through these halls." Utter bewilderment at her words struck deep within Bran's core. For a moment, he wondered whether it was worth it to go ahead with his plan to win Finola's heart. He pinned her with a livid stare. "Whatever his faults, this is a tragedy," he replied in a cold voice. He stepped closer to Finola and spoke with quiet abruptness. "Maybe I've been overly optimistic where you are concerned, Hawke."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" she said with narrowed brows. "I'm just being realistic."

"Oh? And does part of your realistic viewpoint include your clandestine meetings with Sister Petrice?"

"Do you have any idea how I felt when I found that boy's body yesterday?" Finola tipped her head, repressing the urge to shout in his face. "Are you really saying his death is my fault?"

"I'm saying your previous actions may have had some influence."

"Petrice would have killed Saemus no matter what I did. I sided with the Qunari when it came time to fight her." She fell silent for a moment as her hackles slowly rose. "I realize I've made some mistakes, but haven't we all? You were there when I told Dumar that Saemus was being lured to the Chantry. I didn't hear you offer any help!"

"And what would I have done? It's not my job to maim and slaughter."

"You're right, that's my job," she replied with gritted teeth. "Apparently, the only thing you have to worry about is who you're going to stick your prick into next, like the widow Tavner!" Bran glared at her, his cheeks reddening with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "Yeah, that's right. Don't think I didn't see you sneaking out of her house the other night."

Bran was surprised, to say the least. She had taken him to task many times before, but this was different. There was something unusual about her, something beyond anger and mourning. She looked pale and cold and he sensed vulnerability, maybe shame. And… Maker, could she be jealous? He shook his head, trying to convince himself that he didn't want Finola anymore, that he didn't even like her. It was useless, of course.

"And her husband's been dead, what? Four weeks?" she continued to scold.

"At least she has a lover," he snapped back.

"Oh, that's low," she seethed. "You, with your compromised principles, are not a gentleman, Seneschal. You're just a… a bloody," she fumbled for the words. "Just an arrogant man-whore!"

"Oh ho!" His eyes widened as he crossed his arms and laughed at her. "Such a witty comeback. It's no wonder Vael doesn't want to be around you and your inane banter."

"If there weren't people watching us, I'd knock you on your ass, Bran Wyndham," she threatened, her tone growing hostile.

Never in his life had he been afraid of anything, much less a woman. But now, as this muscular and leggy blonde rogue advanced upon him with a look that could kill, he found himself backing up. As her eyes grew wide and she stomped towards him, he secretly felt a thrill while standing back awaiting her wrath.

A tug on her arm stopped Finola in her tracks. She turned to see Sebastian wearing a troubled, if chiding, expression. "Hawke, this is quite inappropriate. We must leave for the funeral. Now." She struggled to get him to release her hand, but he continued to pull her away. "You're acting like a child, Hawke. Rein it in for once!"

Finola blew out an exasperated breath. "Sebastian's right. I will not be made late for Saemus' funeral by the likes of you." She shot Bran a fierce glare, now indifferent about who heard the end of their squabble. "Stay the fuck away from me today, Wyndham, or I swear you'll regret it!"

"Don't worry," Bran said with a sneer. Maker's breath, I love her spirit! he mused in silence. What is wrong with me?

Finola held her tongue, spiteful thoughts of what she would say to Bran at a later time flying through her head. After a final steely glare at Bran, she unleashed her fury on her unsuspecting companion.

"Damn it, Sebastian! Let. Go. Of. My. Hand!" She pulled away violently and Sebastian released her at the very same moment causing her to fly backward, fully off-balance, and she stumbled into a wall. "Why did you do that?" she complained as she scrambled to her feet. "Couldn't you feel me pulling? Andraste's ass, but you men are all alike!"

Sebastian reclaimed her hand to pull her along and mumbled his annoyance loudly, but all she could hear was Bran's mocking laughter.

Jackass.

Sebastian had stayed by Finola's side, quietly repeating Grand Cleric Elthina's words as young Saemus Dumar's funeral took place, his pyre burning as brightly as his short life had. On occasion, Sebastian had glanced at her or placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but she wasn't able shake off her self-pity and cursed herself for being so weak as she watched Viscount Dumar weep openly. Unable to hold back, Finola had shed tears of her own in a rare expression of compassion.

The Chant of Light had passed through Elthina's lips in a mournful drone.

All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,
From the lowest slaves
To the highest kings.
Those who bring harm
Without provocation to the least of His children
Are hated and accursed by the Maker.

As Saemus' body burned, the sorrowful tone of Elthina's chanted words had gone straight to Finola's guilt-ridden heart. The unbearable smell and the low sounds of weeping had worked in unison to make her feel physically ill. She had swallowed back the urge to wretch and covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief Sebastian offered her.

She had seen Bran standing beside Dumar as she scanned the gathering of mourners. He was solemn, probably wretched if Finola had to guess based on their earlier conversation. She knew the grief he felt, understood it, but in the thick crowd, she couldn't provide the same comfort he had given her two weeks before. She'd gotten friendlier with Bran in the last weeks and no matter how much she wanted to be mad at him for his earlier remarks, she found it difficult to harbor any anger towards him knowing he had spoken out of anguish. She'd decided to extend a small smile as a peace offering, to which he gave the slightest of nods.

Clouds gathered and a light mist fell as the long, agonizing afternoon came to a close and the funeral finally ended.

The day's events had been tiresome and Finola turned down the proposal to have a few drinks at the Hanged Man with Varric. The mist turned to a cold, bone-chilling drizzle as it fell on Kirkwall, her heavy footfalls pacing their way through the shadows to Hightown. Her head wanted a pillow, but her heart wanted something entirely different. Visions of a warm bath and hot tea faded as a need for emotional comfort swelled in her heart.

Her feet led her to Bran's door and she stood there, weary and sullen. She imagined Bran had felt much the same two weeks prior as he stood at her door. Finola knew she wasn't particularly adept at soothing speech, as evidenced by her lashing out at Bran earlier. She hoped her presence now would be well-received enough to allow her to support him as best she could, and maybe he could give her some solace as well.

Two raps on the door were all that was needed. Bran peered out first, and then pulled the door back to see Finola standing there, her hair damp and mussed, her expression glum.

"Finola, why are you here?" He tilted his head curiously. "Is something wrong?"

"Well, I should chew you out," she smiled impishly, "but I'm just… checking in, seeing that you got home okay." She shuddered suddenly, the cold having caught up with her at last.

"Well, as you can plainly see, I am home and I am okay. Now, if you don't mind, I have some reading to finish for tomorrow's meeting with Cullen." Bran stared at her, and Finola shifted her weight in silence, rubbing her hands over her arms briskly. He reached out to touch her, surprised by iciness of her skin. "You're half frozen, Fin."

At his slight touch, she felt grateful for the tiny bit of warmth. A full-on pout came to her lips. "Can't I come in for a minute at least ?"

"Didn't you tell me to fuck off earlier? Or some such rude demand…."

"Okay, I get it. I am sorry for that, but in case you haven't noticed, it is raining."

"Fine," he sighed. "Come in out of the rain for a moment," he motioned with his hand and closed the door behind them.

"It's so warm in here," she said thankfully. "I bet you caught a chill today, too."

Bran cleared his throat. "My behavior at the Keep was uncalled for and I apologize," he said suddenly. "Isn't that why you're here?"

"No. No! Look, what we said to each other… emotions were running high and I think we both spoke in haste. Maybe we should… start over again."

"Finola, I have the most horrific of headaches," he groaned. "Can't we rehash this another time?"

"I'm not here to rehash anything," she said dismissively. As she looked at him, she noticed his eyes seemed a bit red-rimmed, and she smelled the alcohol on his breath. "You've been drinking," she said, a statement he wasn't expecting, much to his displeasure.

"What of it?" The cold tone he used was an attempt to scare her off, but she was already wise to most of his tricks.

"Nothing, nothing at all," she waved her hand as she sashayed deeper into the foyer. "Fix me one, too, then. You know what they say about drinking alone."

"Yes, I know the saying," Bran said slowly and then lifted his goblet to take a big sip. "I'll fix you one, and no more." He wanted to resist, to send her home, but everything about her tempted him. Her golden hair and tempestuous eyes, and her mouth, that mouth that begged to be kissed, beckoned him. Even her hips and the way she knew how to use them, swaying with every step as she walked towards the sitting room, had weakened his resolve. Maker, he was a lost man in her presence.

He carried the decanter of whiskey into the room and motioned for her to sit in front of the roaring fire. "Truth be told, I was quite rude, as were you." He chanced a glance at her, but found her expression forgiving. "You know I didn't mean any of it."

"Nor did I."

They sat down on the plush velvet couch, a fluffy silk pillow the only thing separating them. He stared at her, running a finger around the rim of his goblet. "I must thank you for entertaining me with your graceful crash into the wall this afternoon."

"Ha. Ha," she deadpanned. "I was pretty graceful, wasn't I?"

"Like a cat," he smirked.

"At the risk of getting your smalls in a bunch… Tavner's widow… she's a bit… old, isn't she?" she asked with a mischievous, wide-eyed grin.

"You must be joking," he said flippantly. "She is about my age."

"Really?" she said in a high-pitch, and then laughed self-consciously.

"Finola, you do realize that I'm quite a few years older than you. I could almost be your-"

"Stop! Don't you dare say it," she ordered with an outstretched hand. "Well, it's your business anyway."

"Are you perhaps… jealous?" he asked, a devilish flicker in his eye.

"Ha! Please." Was I? Am I? Shit. "I could care less whom you consort with."

He saw her swipe at her brow, a nervous indication he had witnessed during card games she'd predictably lost. Foolish girl. Feeling his heart beat faster, he was determined to play this out until she admitted her jealousy, or at least showed further evidence of it. "I should think a woman like yourself would appreciate an older, more experienced… hand."

She felt a flush creep up her neck as she rolled her eyes. She faced him with a penetrating stare. "You're certainly confident, I'll admit. But I prefer a man with skills similar to mine, a man who wears a boot knife and slips between shadows as silent as a predatory cat." The focused look she gave him was so impudent, he laughed. "You're younger than Dumar, I'll give you that," she scoffed.

"Ah, Finola," he purred, "you know so little of my special skills." He held up his hands, palms facing her. "Can you honestly tell me that you haven't imagined what these would feel like on your skin, caressing you in places as yet untouched by a rough archer's hand?"

Smug idiot. But, he's right. "I don't think that's any of your business," she snapped, feeling a tingle in places she'd rather not. A long, pale finger traced over her brow again.

There it is again. Such a liar. "I shouldn't tell you this as it will ruin my chances of catching you in any impending falsehoods, but you always run your finger across your brow when you're being deceitful and I thought-."

"How dare you?" she cut in sharply. Mouth agape, her mind raced back to a moment ago. "I… well... damn you, Bran!"

"Take it easy, Fin." He leaned forward and grinned apologetically. "Ruffling your feathers is just so amusing, I couldn't resist. Forgive me."

"Bah. You're an ass," she spat, but she didn't move to leave.

He took the whiskey decanter up from the side table. "Care to indulge now?"

"Getting me drunk won't make me any less annoyed with you," she stated with feigned irritation. Settling back into the couch, she crossed her legs nonchalantly. "So, exactly how old is your son anyway?" she asked, knowing the answer, but desperately needing a new topic to discuss.

"About the same age as Saemus is." He stopped, his brows furrowing, eyes cast downward. "Was."

"Oh Maker, Bran. I'm sorry. I know this has been hard on you."

"One so young should not have had to endure such cruelties."

"No, he shouldn't have," she sighed. "He was a good boy, a caring boy." Her expression had turned remorseful.

"Fin, you know this tragedy was no one's fault. It was simply… fate. Do not feel responsible."

"You're probably right," she said softly. "Shall we move on to something more pleasant?" Her lips turned up in a wide and greedy smile. "Hand me some of that swill, if you don't mind."

"This is hardly swill," he said, aghast. "It is one of the finest whiskies one can find in Kirkwall." Pouring two fingers worth into a goblet, he handed the drink to her and was mildly surprised with the speed at which she drank it down. "Easy, Fin. A few more of those and I'll be carrying you home."

"I can hold my liquor, Bran." As proof, she drank down another shot of the strong whiskey, but then felt a spontaneous wetness sting behind her eyes. Determined to hold herself together, she reached out to playfully squeeze the back of Bran's neck as he turned to put the decanter on a side table. Her brows rose. What she discovered was a solid mass of tense muscles. "Bran, you're as tight as a bow string!"

He lurched forward at her touch. "Maker, your hands are like ice!"

"Sorry! Give me a second." After tossing the silk pillow behind her, she rubbed her hands together a few times, blowing on them in a frantic attempt to heat them up, and then tentatively placed them back on his shoulders. With the heat of the fire on her skin and a little encouragement from the whiskey, she made him an offer. "Let me rub your shoulders a bit." She slipped her hands under the collar of his shirt. "Warmer now?"

"A little." He shifted slightly as an unexpected spasm had him rethinking this foolishness. "But I think-"

"Do not think, just relax. My hands are quite strong, you know. Try wielding two weapons all day long and you'll see how quickly your muscles develop."

"Ah… I can feel the strength you speak of. Impressive," he admitted, "But this isn't necessary, Fin."

"Stop protesting already," she ordered with a flick of a finger to the back of his head. She ran her hands over his shoulders a bit more firmly, alternating the pressure with her fingertips and palms.

That did the trick; she could feel his shoulders and arms loosen and drop a bit. Pulling enough fabric out of his waistband, she slipped her hands under his shirt and briefly kneaded his lower back for good measure.

"Finola…?" he said, drawing her name out. "Why are you doing that?"

"Can't you sit still and relax for a minute? Maker's breath, you're jumpy." His neck and upper back were still full of knots, but the rest of him wasn't quite as hard. At least, not the parts I can feel, she giggled to herself. She wondered if he found such personal contact as stimulating as she did.

With little thought, he chanced crossing the line they were sidestepping. "Watch where those hands roam, my dear. You may find more than you bargained for."

My dear? So, he does find it stimulating. Very interesting. "Just enjoy it, Bran. It's not often I offer my massage skills," she said casually. "You're one of the lucky few, my friend." He certainly didn't give the impression of a man about to leap from the couch, and not for the first time, she wished she could see his face.

"It does feel," he paused and opened his eyes, reassured it wasn't the alcohol causing his blissful stupor. "It feels quite nice. Ah, but I wish…."

"What? What do you wish?"

"Nothing," he said with a head shake. "I was about to say something that would ruin this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Forget I said anything."

"It was about Saemus, wasn't it?" Reluctantly, his chin dropped to his chest. "You know, Bran, I do believe you could use a hug." Sliding her arms under his, she wrapped herself around him, lightly pressing her chest to his back, and then clasped her hands in front of him, gently squeezing him once. She rested her head against his shoulder, inhaling his pleasant scent. Sandalwood soap, she thought. "Is this all right? I mean, does it help?"

"Fin, you… yes, but please…." Her breasts pressed against his back and he stiffened as her arms lowered and enclosed around his waist gingerly, slowly drawing him nearer to her. His head was swimming in her embrace. "Please stop… I'm fine."

"I will not stop," she murmured in a peaceful voice.

He twisted his neck, the side of his head near her face. "Finola. I appreciate the effort, but-"

"But what?" Her cheek brushed against his hair as she wrapped her arms tighter about his waist, her hands dangerously near his burgeoning response to her closeness. "I'm making you feel better, aren't I?"

"You're making me feel all sorts of things."

"Oh." She released him instantly and sat back as he shifted to face her. Placing her hands in her lap in a tight clutch, she glanced up at him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to… I just thought you needed a hug. I know I do." She reached for her goblet and drank the last of it in one gulp, swallowing it with a shiver. "Strong stuff indeed," she choked out. She watched as he quickly downed his before pouring another for them both.

"Are you asking me to hug you back?" he asked with a lusty grin and an eyebrow arched.

A pang of guilt shot through her. He was the opposite of Sebastian in almost every way, but there was something about him she couldn't quite figure, something she found irresistible.

When he put his arm around her waist and drew her a little closer, she could feel his breath, hot on her neck, and his touch, eager to explore. He was the warmest and most reassuring thing she had felt in months. She contemplated whether to indulge in this forbidden fruit or not. It could jeopardize her plans to pursue Sebastian, risking everything for the sake of one night's warmth. Stupid, stupid, stupid. With these thoughts of Bran, Finola wasn't sure she deserved Sebastian anyway. She shivered.

"Well, only if you're comfortable with the idea, Bran. I'm not trying to flirt or anything. I just thought after today, we could both stand a little consoling. We are friends after all. There's no harm in it." Let's see what he does now.

"No harm for you maybe." His eyes were all over her then, raking up and down all the dips and peaks he'd longed to touch. The firelight glinted on her tousled waves and her lips were plump and relaxed. He wanted nothing more than to carry her to his bed, to lay her down and reveal his heart. His gaze softened as he took her hand and held it. "I wouldn't mind if you were flirting."

"You're … what? Interested in me… that way?"

"Kiss me and find out." He grinned, taking her other hand, surprising her.

She watched his lips, waiting, but they never came closer. He wanted her to make the move, she realized. She pulled her hands away and let them fall to her sides. "Oh, no, no, no. That's a bad idea, Bran. Surely, you have many other women to fulfill your needs. I'm not one of the girls at the Blooming Rose you know."

"And that is precisely why I want you to kiss me."

"But we work together and there's Sebastian to think of and-"

"Forget Vael. Do you not deserve some affection from someone who is willing to give it?" he said softly, but she remained silent. "Don't try to tell me you haven't kissed another man recently. I know about DuPuis. I have my sources too."

"Oh yeah, Gascard." Unbidden heat rushed to her cheeks and she cracked her knuckles nervously. "That was an impulsive thing, that one kiss. He helped me find my mother. I was grateful and… and distraught. But he gave up magic for good and I know he felt horrible about what happened to the women who were… well, he is quite handsome anyway," she prattled.

"And I'm not?"

"I never said that. You're very pleasing to the eye and you know it."

"Then kiss me already." Desire was plain on his face, his eyes half-lidded, his soft lips parted in silent bliss, waiting. His expression was almost mocking in its beauty, and she would have laughed if she didn't think he'd kick her out of the house in a heartbeat.

Would a kiss born of a need for comfort be so bad? Sebastian would think so, but where was he? At the Chantry, of course – again. It was another lonely night, another night without Sebastian holding her and loving her the way he should. She was suddenly overcome with anxiety, a feeling that almost felt like shame for how effortlessly her eyes wandered from Bran's shoulders downward, and he didn't miss it.

"Let go, Finola," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly at the shot of arousal that coursed through him.

As he took her hands again, he felt their lingering coolness, but her lips were pink, and a delightful warmth radiated from her curious gaze. Growing impatient, he leaned forward and claimed her mouth finding that her full lips were indeed warm. He kissed her long and hard before her lips parted willingly, desire taking over her senses. Their tongues met with teasing licks and their teeth grazed with painless nips before their first kiss deepened and became more passionate.

Her eyes shot open for a moment, realizing the gentle but arousing touches she felt were from Bran's hands. Bran, the seneschal. Bran, the most arrogant and smug man she knew. But he was also the incredibly handsome and seductive man holding her in his arms. Was she losing her mind? How could she feel so comfortable in his embrace, and so safe? He's so warm.

As she crushed her lips to his, she felt something amidst her confusion, something tender and soothing. Responding eagerly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. For so long, she had been ignoring her attraction to him, and suddenly, it all seemed too much to escape.

Their next kiss was neither gentle nor romantic, only filled with explosive desire. She opened her mouth and he explored her with his tongue, determined to memorize every bump and curve, should it be a while before he had another opportunity. With a small sound of suction, Bran moved his lips lower, peppering her throat with soft kisses, leaving her whimpering as his fingers entwined with hers.

"There is no shame in this, Finola." Her name rolled off his lips, reverent and sweet. "You're a beautiful and desirable woman who deserves nothing more than to be held and kissed and told what a treasure she is."

"And what did Tavner's widow say when you told her the same?" she questioned as he ran his tongue along her neck.

"She said…." He reached for her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Nothing, because she is undeserving of such sentiment. I would never say those words so frivolously."

She looked to the side, not meeting his eyes. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Don't speak then. Just let yourself feel… feel me."

His words went straight to her heart. In truth, it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her. But she was scared. Scared of what this could be turning into, and she certainly didn't know how to handle his compliments or show of affection for her. Sometimes her mother had noted her intelligence or penchant for getting out of sticky situations. On rare occasions, Sebastian might praise her choice of battle strategy or skill with weapons. Personal and flattering remarks, however, just didn't happen very often, if ever. But she kept the insecure thoughts to herself and just smiled.

For a few moments longer, he gazed into her stormy eyes sympathetically, silently telling her that it was acceptable to continue. A small giggle was her response and Bran found himself even more aroused by her nervous laughter.

"Let me show you what you do to me," he whispered, taking her face in his hands. "I can pleasure you in ways you've never imagined." The subtle hint of command in his voice sent thrilling sparks through her body, and she couldn't help but moan softly, closing her eyes as he brushed his lips along her ear and whispered more flattering praise.

Moving her head back, she blushed as she saw the raw desire he had for her revealed clearly on his face. "…whiskey went to my head, I think," she managed to whisper, taken in by the whirlwind of emotions, needing something to hold on to, anything.

"It's not the whiskey..."

As soon as she felt his body on hers as he pressed her back to the couch, she kissed him, a demanding and wanting kiss. And he kissed her back, just as demanding, just as wanting, and slowly, she began to let go.

Maker, he's good with his hands. "Bran, this is… surprising," she said, slightly out of breath.

"Not to me." Hope flared inside him and his lips ran along her collarbone dropping kisses in between breaths. "Let me see that hunger I know you possess, Finola. I promise, you will never forget how this feels, how I make you feel tonight."

So many times, she had been afraid of losing herself to her duty to family and friends, to Kirkwall, but in his arms, she didn't feel the hurt, the despair and hatred that she had caused others, that she would inevitably cause again. In this house, with this man who seemed to know her every thought and desire, she felt serene, unchained, like a caged animal set free.

Pressing against his body, their limbs entwined. One hand raked through his thick hair as her other hand wrapped around his shoulder, bringing him even closer. With their bodies molding together, his mouth hot on hers as they savored each other's taste, she was no longer cold or miserable or scared. The heat building between them was overwhelming and suffocating, but invigorating and intoxicating all at once.

He placed his smooth hand against her cheek, stroking it gently. "Finola, I want you. And I know you want me, too." With consummate finesse and patience, he moved to untie the neckline of her shirt with nimble fingertips.

"Bran," she gasped when his hand closed gently over her breast. She lowered her gaze to see his hand upon her, a smile creeping to her lips as her cheeks heated. "Maker, help me, I do…."

"Say it. Tell me who you want."

"You," she breathed. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and imagined what it would be like let Bran make love to her, to touch her in ways no one else ever had, to own her for one night.

He buried his face in her hair, pondering if his kisses exposed his emptiness to her, the emptiness slowly being filled by her now. She pulled him back, her mouth reaching for his until they met, and his lips were merciless, creating a hot sensation shooting through her whole body and forcing any remnants of coldness away. No matter how miserable and cold she was when she entered his home, nothing could match the warmth she felt at that moment.

Their pace intensified. He bit at her neck and the swell of her breasts, sucking on the sensitive flesh there while her hands roamed over his body, one caressing his arm and the other dancing along his hip to reach beyond the waistband of his trews. Fingers and hands were urgent, unrestrained, too much yet not nearly enough.

And then she felt it.

The locket Sebastian had given her, a family heirloom given to her as a token of appreciation and friendship. It scraped against her skin as Bran caressed her, itching, burning, reminding her, filling her with guilt.

"Stop Bran, please. I can't… I can't do this." At hearing the deep breath he took, she sat up and straightened her clothes, averting her eyes. "I'm sorry, but Sebastian deserves more."

Bran pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing in frustration. "Yes, I've heard you say that before," he pointed out dejectedly, tired of letting his feelings for her lead him blindly. "You don't even know who you want, do you?"

She shook her head, but what she was denying, she didn't know. "It doesn't matter… I don't have to choose between you or him or any other man because in the end, it will always be Sebastian."

Under her spell too long, he had drowned in her arms, in her kisses, and now he felt a familiar pain pressing the air from his lungs. He forced a façade, slipping back into his earlier state of ennui as she managed to collect her senses and swiftly rise from the couch.

With another sigh, he made the decision easier for her. "Suit yourself," he said stoically, trying to hide his disappointment. "Can't blame a man for trying." Standing up, he smoothed his hair and took two steps away from her.

"I suppose I should get home. It's… late."

His arm swept out and motioned toward the entryway as she gazed at him. Puzzled by his ready acceptance, she paused in a weak moment, giving him a chance to convince her to reconsider.

Ah, she's taunting me now, baiting me. But the decision must be hers, he thought, encouraged by her stalling. She'll figure it out... one of these days.

"I should never have stayed this long." Overwhelmed and feeling too exposed, too confused, she bee-lined for the front door, stopping as she grabbed the doorknob. She turned to see him standing right behind her, his eyes upon her. Her hand went first to her mouth, still tingling from the hard press of his lips, her fingertips lingering before moving to her neck to squeeze the locket. "I'm sorry, Bran."

He wanted to be angry with her, to feel enraged enough to shout and throw things, but found he was reassured instead. They had made a connection, something that would bind him to her no matter how much, or how long, she refused to acknowledge it. "I don't want you to be sorry. Just… be honest with me."

"I can try," she said quietly, the words sounding trite, hollow. "I… uh… you know I'm meeting with the Arishok tomorrow afternoon, right?"

He nodded and stiffened, concern for her safety borne of his knowledge of the dangers she might face. "I know you'll keep your wits about you."

"Of course I will, but…." New feelings pulsed though her, caring feelings, and an impulsive need to keep him safe sprang from deep in her heart. "The Arishok is ready to snap and may react violently. Forget your meeting with Cullen," she said, her tone sharpened by the magnitude of the Qunari threat. "Stay here, in your house. Do not go to the Keep at all. Promise me, Bran."

She's worried for me. My foolish doubts be damned! "If you think it's best," he said with forced calm. And just like that, convinced she felt more for him than she even knew, his fate was sealed. "But I should tell Dumar."

"No! Stay away from him. I will go to the Keep and warn him in the morning. I fear… Dumar may very well be a bargaining chip. He's vulnerable now, and can't defend himself. I will do my best to keep him safe, but he will be at risk when I'm not nearby. "

"You really think the Arishok would harm him?"

"It's just a hunch. I hope I'm wrong. Maker, I hope…." she trailed off.

"I'll do as you advise then," he said, placing his hand on her cheek gently, "if you promise me something in return."

"This is no time to be obstinate, Bran. Your life could be at risk." Silently, he waited with wide, unyielding eyes. "Fine. Promise you what?"

He leaned in and kissed her, pushing her against the door, his weight pressing on her. It was only a brief kiss - a goodbye kiss she thought - but it held so much more. He grabbed her by the waist, pulling her to him, and she froze in his arms. "I'm not going to debate with you tonight, but I will tell you this… one day, you will realize who you truly want, and when that day comes, I will be here, waiting."

Is he… could he be in love with me? Me, out of all the woman he's been with? He can't be. It's just… lust. Damn him for complicating everything. "Forget this night, this… moment. I don't want to hurt you, Bran," she whispered.

He cocked his head to the side, his warm smile never fading as he studied her face. "Don't worry about me." She weakened in his arms, tears coming to her eyes, but he shook his head and wiped them away. "It grieves me to see you cry, but it also gives me hope." In that moment, as she leaned against him, he resolved that thoughts of a life without her would leave his mind forever.

She absently brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder, her thoughts spiraling out of control. "You… wanted me to promise something?"

"Promise you'll find me when this Qunari threat is over, so I will know you're safe."

"I'll see you… soon," she murmured, breathless as he let her go.

"Not good enough." He grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed, his eyes boring deep into hers. "Promise me."

"All right, all right. I promise."

He released her and his lips curved into a knowing grin. "Good."

"Take care, Bran."

"I always do." The events of the evening could not be changed now. Weeks, months, even years could pass, and he would still be able to see a future he could look forward to, a future he would someday share with Finola. No question. He raised his eyes to hers, affection unmistakable in his gaze. "Be careful, Finola."

"Yes… and you… Bran, I-"

He put a finger on her lips, silencing her. "Rest well, my dear."

She wanted to tell him that she trusted him, cared for him, but could never be with him as long as Sebastian Vael walked the earth. Instead, she uttered only wordless sounds. She had already lost sight of how long the day had been, how every bone in her body was aching for a bed. It could have been the dim lighting, or the whiskey, but when she looked at his face, she thought he looked... happy.

At a loss, she simply nodded and walked out the door. If she survived tomorrow, she'd contemplate Bran then, and maybe what happened tonight would make some sense.

As the moonlight filtered through the storm clouds blowing off to the east, he dreamt of her, the words he longed to hear floating from her lips on a breathy sigh.

Make love to me, Bran. Love me… forever.