Her pulse jumped again. “And what, exactly, were ye daein’ tae make such a noise?” she asked, her tone sliding toward challenge.
He arched a brow. “Dae ye really want tae ken?”
Her chin lifted another inch. “I wouldnae ask if I didnae.”
He studied her for a long, unreadable moment, then turned without another word. The torchlight grazed his back as he moved, and Catherine’s breath caught. Three long gashes ran from shoulder to waist, pale against his skin but still angry and raw. The marks had half healed, the edges darkened, as though they’d been torn open.
Catherine forgot to speak. The silence that followed was unbearable. She stepped closer before she realized it, her voice unsteady but strong enough to carry.
“When did that happen?” Her voice came out softer than she intended, too close to concern, far from the sharpness she usually wore like armor.
Aidan didn’t answer at once. He braced his hand against the wall, his head bowed as though the question itself carried weight. The firelight shuddered across his back, tracing the dark, uneven ridges of the wound. Catherine took another step forward before sense could stop her.
She reached out slowly, her fingers hovering above the deepest cut. The skin there was warm and flushed, the edges glossy where the ointment had already been spread. She hesitated, breath caught somewhere between her ribs, then she touched him.
Her fingertips barely grazed the wound, but he still flinched. The sound that left him was low, a half-swallowed groan that curled through the air like smoke.
Catherine’s stomach twisted. She pulled her hand back an inch, startled by the intimacy of the sound. “Daes it pain ye?” she asked quietly.
“Aye,” he said, after a breath. “It daes.”
The words were blunt but not angry. If anything, they sounded tired, stripped of the sharp edge she’d come to expect from him. He straightened slowly, but didn’t turn, his breath steadying before he spoke again. “It’s an old wound. A blade I should’ve dodged, years back. Never quite healed right.”
Catherine frowned. “And ye’ve done naethin’ about it since?”
“The healer did what he could. The rest… I learned tae live with.” He turned his head slightly, enough that she could see the faint curve of his jaw, the shadows cutting deep beneath his cheekbone. “The skin there’s… sensitive. The poultice helps, when I’ve sense enough tae use it.”
She could see the half-empty jar on the table, its rim smeared with salve. He must have been trying to reach the farthest wound himself when she’d heard him groan. The thought of him alone, struggling in silence rather than asking for help, struck her with an unexpected pang.
“Ye should’ve called fer someone,” she said.
“I didnae want tae wake the castle.”
Her lips tightened. “Or ye didnae want anyone tae ken ye were hurt.”
He didn’t answer that. His shoulders shifted slightly under the flickering light, a wordless admission.
She stood still, watching the slow rise and fall of his breath, the faint tremor in his arm where the muscle still tensed against the pain. Then she moved without thinking—past pride, past propriety.
“Let me,” she said.
Aidan turned then, his gaze catching hers. His eyes were dark in the half-light, unreadable. “Let ye what?”
“Help,” she said simply. “Ye cannae reach the far side. It’ll fester if ye leave it.”
He watched her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching thin. “Catherine,” he said finally, his tone quieter now. “Ye dinnae need tae trouble yerself.”
“Trouble?” She arched a brow, stepping closer. “Ye call a few minutes o’ decency trouble?”
“I call it unnecessary.”
Her temper sparked, quick and hot. “And I call it foolish pride. D’ye think yerself immortal?”
“I think I ken me limits.”
“Aye,” she said dryly. “And apparently they end where yer back begins.”
That earned her a faint, reluctant breath of laughter. “Ye’ve a sharp tongue, lass.”
