Page 6

I reach into my bag, fingers fumbling through bandages, water flask, whatever half-crushed salve I’ve got left.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. No sense startling her. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids flutter—barely a twitch at first. Then they crack open, and her gaze snags mine.

Panic.

It hits her face like a lightning strike—wild, unfiltered, immediate. I see her flinch before she even moves, and then she’s scrabbling to press herself deeper into the crumbled wall behind her. Her body’s trembling, half-frozen, half-fighting.

My hands fly up, palms open. I stay low, crouched and nonthreatening, sword untouched.

“Easy,” I murmur. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just…just hold on.”

She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me, eyes wide and glassy, lips slightly parted like she’s still catching up to where she is and who I am. The kind of fear she’s carrying—it’s not the usual bandit jumpiness or traveler’s suspicion. This is something deeper. Like she’s seen hell and it chased her here.

I shift carefully, reach for my pack without breaking eye contact, and pull out my canteen. The water inside sloshes quietly. Still some left. Good. I fish out the rest—dried meat, a broken bit of hard bread. Nothing fancy, but it might be enough to ground her.

“I’ve got water,” I say, holding the canteen out. I keep my voice gentle, low. “You look like you need this.”

She stares at it, doesn’t move. Her breathing’s shallow, chest rising in short, fast bursts. Her skin’s too pale, almost luminous in the moonlight—and gods, the gash across her shoulder is bad. Ugly. Deep enough that even I, used to gore and worse, feel my gut clench.

“You’re hurt,” I add, shifting closer. “I—I can help, but you have to let me. Here, I have a bit of water left.” I hold the canteen out to her again, fingers outstretched like she might snap if I get too close.

Her eyes flick to mine, then to the canteen, before she closes them and shakes her head weakly. It’s not a refusal, exactly, more like resignation.

Shit.

I glance at the blood soaking her cloak, at the way she’s curled into herself.

Something about the color of her blood—no, maybe it’s the dim light, but it seems different. Thick. Rich. I push that thought aside, a nagging sense of unease blooming in my chest.

She tries to sit up. I move forward instinctively, pressing a hand to her good shoulder to steady her. “Whoa, careful.”

Her gaze snaps to where my palm rests, and I realize I’m in her space. Too close for someone who looks like a trapped animal.

Too much.

Shit, Roan, back off.

I pull my hand away quickly, holding it up again.

I fumble for words. “I—I’m Roan,” I say, voice a little rough. “Just passing through. I can leave, if that’s what you want. But that wound… it’s not going to heal on its own.”

She swallows, and I can’t help but notice just how sharp her cheekbones are, how those amber eyes nearly glow in the waning light. Gods, I don’t know what’s going on with her. Hunger, fear, maybe both.

“I’m…fine,” she manages. Her voice cracks halfway through the word.

“Alright,” I say, exhaling slowly. “If you say so.” But she’s clearlynotfine. Her hand trembles on the ground, fingers curling in pain.

I look at her—really look this time. Not just at the wound or the blood, but the woman underneath all that fear. And something about her makes my chest feel tight. She looks like she’s been hunted. Like she’s still being hunted.

And I can’t turn my back on that.

“Look,” I say again, quieter now. “I’ve got food. Water. I can patch you up, if you let me. Might even keep you breathing until morning. I don’t want anything from you.”

She looks torn.

Her eyes flick between the canteen in my hand and my face, back and forth like she’s trying to measure something behind my expression. Like she’s waiting for the catch. Her jaw tightens, the muscle twitching just once before she stills again. Pain’s got a grip on her, no question—but there’s something else there too. A war behind her eyes. Pride, maybe. Mistrust. Or maybe she’s just too used to suffering alone.