The Dragonborn was tired and hungry and horny and irritable, so when a golden-haired beauty smelling of sweet roll nearly bowled him over on the steps of the Wind District, he took offense.

"Hey! Watch it!" he growled

"Sorry," she muttered.

Not content, he grabbed her arms and spun her around. "That's not a very good apology."

She didn't look at him. "I. . . I'm sorry, truly," she stammered. "I was upset and I wasn't watching where I was going. Please – forgive my carelessness."

Feeling as though he'd just booted a small puppy across the plaza, he relaxed his grip on her and gave her a small shake, forcing her eyes up to his. She was trying, valiantly, to hold back tears. Of fucking course she is, he thought.

"Hey, you're—"

"The Dragonborn, I know, I know," he cut her off.

Her slim brows rose. "You're the Dragonborn?"

"What were you going to say?"

"That you're bleeding."

"Probably because you just slammed into a recent battle wound," he said, with more irritation than he felt.

An attractively feminine gasp of horror escaped her and she reached toward the slash in his armor.

"My Thane," came an irritated voice from a few steps back.

"Not now, Lydia," he said.

Kalv allowed himself to be guided to a bench underneath the Gildergreen. His eyes lazed over the blonde as she pulled his heavy pack away from him and set it on the ground.

"My Thane!"

Kalv closed his eyes, the picture of long-suffering martyrdom. Before he could berate Lydia, Sweetroll spoke. "Your house-carl seems exhausted, Dragonborn, and she certainly won't be of use standing around here."

Kalv's eyes flew to a red-faced Lydia.

"Perhaps you can release her for the moment to take care of whatever pressing matters concern her while I see to your immediate needs."

Lydia looked as though her eyes were going to bug out of her head.

"That's an excellent idea," Kalv said with a smile. "Lydia, it's time for us to part ways. Go sell this stuff and then take the day off." He waved away her protests and turned his attention back to Sweetroll.

"So Sweetroll, have a name?"

She sniggered and kept her eyes trained on the wound she was uncovering. "Steal that one from, Mikael?"

He laughed in a rich baritone. "You wound me – Twice now – and I'm Kalv."

Her storm cloud-blue eyes flicked to his. "Do you do that often? Laugh, I mean? Really laugh?"

One of his blonde brows quirked at the oddly weighted question. "Yes, as often as I can," he answered seriously.

His answer seemed to please her for some reason. "Good."

Finally revealing the wound, she frowned slightly. "We should go somewhere else so I can look at this. I may need some supplies."

"Gladly," he said. "My house is this way."

The Dragonborn sat, stripped to the waist, on a chair in his bedroom. Cyrene knelt before him wringing out a clean cloth in hot water. She'd already cleaned his wound when she noticed the heated patch of red at the end.

"Is this a recent wound?"

He'd been so busy picturing himself licking icing off her pouty coral mouth that he almost missed her question. "Huh? Oh, yes, Danica healed it for me a few weeks ago, but it reopened yesterday when I took a hit." He winced as she pressed lightly in the red patch.

Cyréne's jaw tightened slightly and she looked up at him worriedly. "It has to be opened further. She missed something and you have an infection."

"Are you sure?" he started, "Danica—"

"Spends more time worrying about that damn tree and listening to marriage problems than paying attention to what she's doing, apparently."

Before he could say anything else, she whipped out a clean dagger and made a deep cut.

"Gods Damn It!" he roared.

"Be still, please!" she hissed.

He looked down to see more puss than blood seeping out of the wound. Cyréne made a gagging sound and shook her head. She rinsed the wound repeatedly and packed it with clean linen. Kalv was shaking and had broken into a cold sweat.

"Just a little longer," she coaxed. After a few moments of poking and prodding him, she realized she was going to have to cause him further pain and called his name sensuously. "Kalv"

"What?" he panted.

"Do you want to see me naked?"

He gazed down at her in shock and nodded dumbly.

"What do you want to see first?" she breathed.

His mouth went dry, "Well, I . . . your . . ."

"My what?" she pouted.

"Your . . . uh, all of you. Especially your, OBLIVION TAKE IT!"

A searing pain pierced his lust-addled brain as she effectively cauterized the wound. The crackle of fire left her fingertips and was replaced by a welcome touch of frosty coolness.

"God's above woman!"

She gave him an apologetic smile. "I know, and I'm sorry, but now the good part."

Charmed, he watched her as she washed her hands and then splayed them out over his wound. Healing energy washed over him and he groaned happily.

Cyréne ran her hands over the hard planes of the Dragonborn's chest, letting them wander a little farther than was strictly necessary, happy for anything that distracted her from the pain that was clawing at her insides. She watched him as his clear green eyes closed in bliss. His shoulder-length blonde hair was pulled into a few braids in the front and hung loose in the back. Blonde stubble graced a strong jaw and sensuous mouth. A few minutes later, all traces of the wound were gone and he was energized.

"That should do it," she said with a sigh.

"You're good at this. I'm surprised you're not with one of the temples."

'I'm not really the priestess type," she muttered

He shot her a wicked grin. "No, I suppose most temples would frown on you encouraging your patients to think of your naked body."

To his surprise she punched him lightly.

"As if you needed my encouragement."

She was on her way out of the door, but he caught her easily, "Oh, no you don't," he growled.

"Oh no I don't, what?" she demanded.

Kalv trapped her against he wall and leaned down into her personal space. "Oh no you don't, go treating me like I'm some harmless boy to be toyed with," he said lowly.

She pushed at him, alarmed, "What?"

"That may work with those shield-brothers of yours up the hill," he said, running a hand up her side, "but I assure you, I'm no plaything."

"Stop! Please, stop!"

She sounded panicked. Kalv stopped and regarded her, curious. Her stormy blue eyes were widened in alarm. Hints of passionate fire licked behind them, but Sweetroll was clearly shocked at his actions. He frowned.

Cyréne felt her cheeks flush. Her heart twisted in panic. The Dragonborn was frowning down at her fiercely. Heat coursed through her, her emotions were already at a fever pitch and his close proximity was sending jolts of tingling fire to nether regions. But Vilkas . . . she felt betrayed, she was scared, confused. Her thoughts swam. I'm acting like a god's damned whore!

Kalv watched in slight amusement as Sweetroll grasped at her emotions.

Pick lust, he willed silently.

Her eyes narrowed.

Nope.

"I am not a god's damned whore!" she spat. "I do not toy, with my shield-siblings and I sure as Oblivion am not trying to make you my plaything!" She shook him off of her. "Why? WHY are you doing this to me?"

Kalv was at a loss, "I . . ."

"You what?" she raved. "This is the second most fucked up situation I've found myself in today – all because I tried to help someone."

"Language, Sweetroll, please!" he teased.

She shoved him roughly and stormed toward the door. "I'll use whatever FUCKING language I want to. Go save the god's damned world or something!" she yelled.

"But Sweetroll . . ." he began

"AND DON'T CALL ME SWEETROLL!" she yelled.

The door slammed behind her hard enough for the glass to rattle in the window panes.

The Dragonborn grinned. Sweetroll