It had been the smell that saved her.
She herself would never know what had done it, but in truth it was the smell, and the hidden part of her mind that was animal. He was crouching over her, breathing, his hand on her shoulder. She blinked in the dark and mewled, protesting. It was early, far too early to ride, he must know that, she was finally warm and she was still asleep. He ran his hand down along her anyway, rough, stroking over her hip, clenching, and then his other hand pulled down her blanket from her throat. His knuckles where rough on her throat, ran along her collarbone, one knuckle dragging against her breastbone and down. His knee was against her, now his other; he was straddling her. She moved to bat him away, and he caught her hand in his firm grip and now the blanket was sliding off, pushed down to her skirts, and he was lifting her against him, bringing her to his chest. He was picking her up.
It was then that she opened her mouth against his throat to object–I don't want to sleep on the horse, I'm not ready, let go–and she breathed in deep for her complaint, and when she did she smelled him.
It wasn't the familiar, heavy salt-musk smell of him, it had changed: tangy with an undercurrent of sharp, like urine. Before she could think on it her free hand had flown to his face and palmed it and instead of a plate of scar there was dense bristle to tell her, and because of this, only because of this, she managed a half-second of guttural cry before the hand curled hard over her mouth and smothered it.
He had picked her up, now, and she couldn't make a sound, couldn't breathe, the hand was over her mouth and nose. She saw the outline of the head against the blue, he was lifting her to her feet. His hand behind her was grabbing, kneading, grinding her against him; and then it slacked and his head bobbed and knocked hers. He pinched her then, a convulsion, tightened her against his lap, and he gurgled loud, a rattling sound. Then the head–but how was this? It stayed where it was, but she was falling. Oh, he had dropped her. No, his body was still on her, still holding her tight, she hit the ground with him clutching her–he was lying on top of her, but his head, it was still far above her, it was swaying back and forth, he was nodding no, no. She was wet suddenly, had she lost her bladder, what was this? The head was spitting on her–what is this, what?
She saw the head sway and saw the shadow behind it at once, and knew, and she was inside out in her horror, retching, thrashing under the body. The head dropped then, beside hers, a wet sound like overripe fruit; a cheek sound like when you suck too hard on a honeycomb, and the body leapt off of her, arms flailing.
Then she was pulled up, rough grip, and standing, and the Hound was patting her, patting her, his hands fluttering all over her body, and he was muttering low where is it, where is it, fuck, where is it? Answer me, and she realized through her panic that he was looking for a wound, sightless in the dark. And so she said, "I'm not cut," and it was then, hearing her own voice small in the night, that she became as a child again.
She clutched him to her, screeching and sobbing, without dignity, and let him hold her.