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When Lachlan looked up, a naked woman was crouched over him. “Ollie?” she asked.

Surprised, he wanted to say something clever, but was afraid if he opened his mouth, it wouldn’t be words coming out. He waved a hand at her instead, wishing he felt better to appreciate her nakedness, that he could remember their night together. When he tried to sit up, his body protested, forcibly keeping him on his back. He gasped, huffing with the exertion, the wave of nausea ebbing as the discomfort of everything else took precedence.

What the hell was wrong with him? Had he been in a fight?

“Take it easy. Nausea is normal. Do you need help outside?” The voice drew his attention, and he turned his head to the woman shrugging into a brown sweater.

“You’re naked. Sorry, I don’t remember fucking. We did, right?” he asked, though why was he in so much pain? Nothing was making sense. He pressed his fingers between his eyes as the nausea rolled back toward him.

She scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

He opened his eyes to look at her again. Her tone of voice communicated her abhorrence of the idea, which confused him. Women always wanted to have sex with him. It was a perk of being the prince, even if he knew it was because he was a prince, not because he was Lachlan. “Then why are you naked?”

Her face—though streaked with dirt—turned red. She had large eyes, a unique shade of gray with thick lashes and dark brows gathered between them. He shivered again and noted she had a nice straight nose, pert and proportional. Her supple lips were pressed together into a thin line. His mind wanted to identify her emotion, but he couldn’t make the connection; his mind felt like the wrong size and shape.

“I was warming you up.”

“I’m still cold.” He shivered and drew the blanket back up. His teeth chattered. “I feel like death.”

Her hand pressed against his neck. “You still have a fever,” she said, “but maybe you’re past the worst–”

“The worst?”

She paused, her hand on his cheek. She pulled it away. “You almost died, and you’re still not out of the woods.”

“Died?” Lachlan tried to piece together his memories, but they were scattered and hidden away. “I don’t understand.”

“Hypothermia,” she said.

The woman disappeared from his line of sight. He could hear the slide of fabric, which made him think she was dressing, but he couldn’t lift his head to check. Her elbow bumped against him. “I’m going to get the herbs I need for your fever and the pain. Get a fire going.”

Tea sounded awful He felt trapped inside his own skin. He wanted out of this tent. “Who are you?” he asked and tried to get up again.

She stopped him, pressing his shoulders back into the blankets. “Stay.” She measured him with her gaze, her fingertips pushing the hair on his forehead out of his eyes, leaving his question unanswered. “I’ll be back. Rest.” Then she scooted from the tent and disappeared through the flap.

Lachlan stared up at the ceiling of the tent, listening to her move outside, shivering. The sound of birds and the breeze in the leaves. The sound of steps. The crack of wood and the eventual crackle of a fire. He was in the woods.

He tried to stay awake, fighting sleep, only his eyelids grew so heavy he couldn’t keep them open. It brought physical relief to shut them. The incessant shaking of his body and chatter of his teeth was painful. He had the fleeting memory of being forced to drink something terrible, and when he opened his eyes again, his body was weighted with more covers, but he finally felt warm. He imagined the naked woman—who must have been a figment of his fevered imagination—had helped him, but he didn’t have the energy to ponder that strange reality and drifted back into the relief of sleep.

“Ollie?”

His eyes opened to the woman’s face hovering over him.

Her face drew closer to his, and she gazed into his eyes, frowning.

“Are you real?” he asked. “I dreamed you.”

She ignored him, her eyes taking in something on his face in a detached sort of way. “Your pupils look good. Know what day it is?”

He shook his head and winced with the movement.

She noticed his reaction. “What’s your name?”

“Lachlan.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she reached to touch his head. “You said your name was Ollie.”

Lachlan tried not to notice the interesting color of her eyes—gray ringed with threads of violet—or the fullness of her mouth as she studied him. He also ignored the way her fingers probed his head, sliding across his face and neck drawing out chills that raced down his spine. “What?”