Cullen strips the bed with the inborn efficiency of someone accustomed to ascetic military life. The new linens get sharp corners, precisely angled. While he's at it, he thinks, he might as well do it up the rest of the way: blanket and coverlet follow.

He washes in a manner that is quick, rough, and impersonal. Like he doesn't dare think about that or anything else. He tells himself he's just tired and, wrapping himself in the loose linen robe hanging in the armoir, settles on the bed, on his side. He can catnap until Alistair is done.