His rooms—rooms, plural, two of them all his own, one a bedroom, the other a room to sit in and read and store his weapons—were at the foot of the only stairs up to Hawke's chambers. No one could get to her without his knowing it—not unless they flew in and descended from her turret bower above. So while she slept, she was safe from anyone other than Flemeth, he hoped. The only other people on the same floor as he were Aveline, as her other bodyguard should be, and Orana, in order to be on hand as her personal attendant. The elf girl confided to him that she had slept on the floor under the braided rag rug in her room for weeks until she worked up the courage to sleep in her own bed.
So Fenris was not lying in wait for Hawke that morning, he was simply being vigilant. And he did want to talk to her. "I would speak with you," he greeted her as she came down the stairs. Orana had already brought her breakfast and water for washing, so she was dressed and ready for the day.
"Aah!" she squawked, then laughed in relief. "Don't—don't do that. Not first thing in the morning."
"My apologies," he offered. "But I would still speak with you."
"What about? I'm on my way to my workrooms."
They went down the next flight together and—that dress. She wore the same dress she had on the day she rescued him, linen the color of fresh bay leaves. He would never forget a single detail of that day, but what he had not paid attention to then was how sensual it was. Most women, certainly all female mages, wore clothes that fit very tightly from neck to hip over corsetry so solid it was practically armor. Even when the dress was low-cut, nothing about them moved, nothing was soft or relaxed.
This dress was the antithesis of all those garments. It was loose, fluid, unanchored, no more complicated than a night gown. It flowed over her breasts and skimmed over her belly, buttocks, thighs. Yielding was a word that came to mind, and easy to take off followed upon its heels. Whatever she wore under it was…not enough to keep all of that fascinating anatomy from moving.
Luckily the groin protection his armor provided would keep his reaction from showing, although chafing might become a problem. He looked down at his feet, regained the thread of his thoughts.
"The witch. Your mother and Varric think her adorable. I cannot agree. She is dangerous."
"Merrill?" Hawke raised an eyebrow. "I think she's both. She's like a kitten—there's an innocence that sees innocence in everything, and that is how she sees the world—for the most part. There is no malice in her. However, that kind of naiveté is dangerous, to her and to others. I think she needs supervision."
"You need not be the one to provide it. She is not your responsibility, and I see no good of her being here." Fenris stated flatly.
"Carver passed the responsibility on to me. Without the protection of my House, out on her own in Minrathous, she would likely be raped and murdered within a day, or else enslaved. That would prey upon me, if it happened. As far as what good may come of her being here, she has already furthered my understanding of the nature of blood. You're making a face—," Hawke broke off. "As I said the other night, I am studying blood itself. Not blood magic, which really ought to be called pain magic."
"Anything to do with blood is suspect," he scowled.
"Fenris, I don't know how to tell you this, and I am very sorry, but…there is blood running through your veins right now."
"You mock me."
"No, I only tease you," she countered. "You haven't seen my workspace yet. Come with me, and I'll show you what I've been up to. " They had reached the ground floor , and she led him to the massive, iron bound door which looked all of a piece with its frame.
