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He lifts her into his arms, and she can no more stop the sound she makes than she can defeat a high dragon by herself. It's soft and breathless and wanting—a sound for unlonesome nights. She hides her face against his neck because she knows her heart is in her eyes and he's never been very kind to hearts.
If asked to explain, words would fail her. Is it the effortless way he moves, his bare feet finding footing without a sign of effort; his snarly independence, sharp enough to sting; the fierceness of his eyes? She doesn't understand the whys of her desire, she doesn't understand how to stop.
He will never like her, and if some part of her wonders if things might have been different had she made other choices, it is small, easily tucked away and ignored. He will never like her, she knows it, and hopes the years and the slinging of cruel words will offer some armor, build some callus. She hardens her heart against him till it's solid as stone, too heavy for even him to take.
When Hawke gives him away, sells him back into horror, she's as frozen as he is. It will take weeks before she can look Hawke in the eye. When the Chantry falls, she turns herself northward. 'He will not thank you for your help,' she thinks. She starts walking.