He'd woken from death several times to airless, liquid darkness, fading — dying — again before he could more that gasp and strain ineffectually against wholly enveloping restraint, heart stuttering around the blade that pierced it. This time when he woke, there was light visible beyond his eyelids, faint and golden; and air sharp and redolent of teasingly familiar spice, despite the fine-woven stuff that stretched smotheringly close over his face, molded wetly to every limb, so tight it was only just possible to breathe. The iron tang in his throat made him wonder if it was his own blood that made it cling fast. It was silk, thin and stubbornly strong, for all its gossamer lightness when dry, much tougher than it had appeared, floating deliciously over the curves of the dancer. He'd been well and truly caught by that pretty face and lithe form. Where on earth had she been hiding that damn dagger anyway?
Slowly he wrestled his way out of the furls and folds of tightly-wound cloth. The inner layers were unembellished, smooth and red with what he hoped was only dye. The outer veils were elaborately worked, edges fringed and dripping with pearls and silver bullion, gemstones winking in the low light. They tangled in his hair, around his fingers, hindering him almost as much as the silk alone. This was ridiculous. Finally he stood unbound, stark naked in a puddle of silk and pearls, not a blade or a weapon to be seen. Dammit. He recognized this scenario.