He looked around the steam-clouded bathroom, but no clues jumped out at him. Since there were extra drying cloths, he used a second one to scrub his hair. “That nose is fine,” he finally answered. “I fixed it.”

“What? Like, yourself?”

He scoffed. “I hardly need a healer for that.”

“Okaaaay.” Pause. “Do you like the other outfit?”

Piers winced. Sophronia had purchased more clothing for him when he hadn’t been looking. He blamed the wonder of waterproof and that fascinating zipper contraption. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. Sophronia was kind and thoughtful. He just didn’t want her spending her money on him, and especially on useless items, such as those thin, tiny pants. What was a man supposed to do with those things?

“Everything’s perfect,” he called back. “Thank you.”

He donned the same cargo pants and sweater he’d worn before. They were still fresh enough. Finished in the bathroom, he hung up the drying cloths, finger combed his hair, and pulled open the door. Sophronia was right on the other side of it.

He stopped short, warmth surging through him.

She sucked in a breath. “Sorry.” She backed up a step. “It was just… We were talking.”

Desire stirred, a thudding pulse low in his abdomen. Piers hadn’t stood this close to a woman who aroused him in what felt like years. Maybe it was years. He spent all his time between the knowledge temples and the battlefield. Women seemed to like a warrior better than a scholar, at least in his world, but he’d always leaned more toward scrolls than swords. And if he wasn’t battling, he wasn’t sure he looked up from ink and parchment often enough to even notice who might be around.

“Please.” He sounded as if he’d swallowed a handful of rocks. “This is your room. Stand where you like.”

“It’s our room,” she corrected. “At least, until we figure things out.”

Piers nodded, tension sizzling inside him. There was only one bed, but he’d sleep on the floor. Or maybe he just wouldn’t sleep. He’d keep watch. He’d watch her.

Well, he’d try not to stare, but he was pretty sure he’d fail.

“Shower time,” Sophronia said brightly, gathering a little pink bag from the bedside table. “I’m going to wash that trash-filled alley out of my hair while you settle in, and then we’ll… I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Make a plan? Too bad Run-For-Your-Life 101 wasn’t a class in college. In retrospect, it would’ve been way more useful than French literature.”

Piers stared at her, fascinated and confused. “You say the strangest things. I don’t know what they mean half the time.”