"Forgive me for waking you," she said quietly.
"I was not asleep." How could he sleep in this unfamiliar bed, with the pain, knowing she would come?
She set the candle on the bedside table and moved to the bed without hesitation. No awkwardness now. Just quiet efficiency born of necessity.
"This will hurt," she warned, as she had every time before.
"I know."
Her hands found his shoulder and hip—careful to avoid the worst of the bruising—and she pulled. Aubrey gasped, his vision greying at the edges, his fingers finding her wrist and gripping hard enough that he dimly realised he might be hurting her.
But Eleanor did not flinch, did not pull away. She simply held him steady while the worst of the pain subsided, her breath warm against his shoulder, her body close enough that he could smell lavender soap and something uniquely her.
"There," she whispered. "The worst is over."
She tucked pillows behind him with practiced movements, then slowly eased him back. Her hand moved to his forehead—checking for fever, he realised—and lingered there for just a moment.
"You are warm," she said, frowning. "Not feverish, I think, but warm. Are you in more pain than usual?"
"No." The word came out softer than he intended. "No worse thanbefore."
Eleanor's grey eyes searched his face in the candlelight. "You would tell me if it worsened? If you suspected infection?"
Would he? Aubrey was not certain. Part of him wanted to suffer in silence rather than reveal any more weakness to this woman. But another part, a part he did not want to acknowledge, recognised that Eleanor's care was the only thing standing between him and serious complications.
"Yes," he said finally. "I would tell you."
She nodded, apparently satisfied. "I shall return at four. Try to rest."
"Wait."
The word escaped before he could stop it. Eleanor paused, her hand on the candle.
"Your wrist," Aubrey said. "Let me see it."
She stiffened. "My wrist is perfectly fine, my lord."
"It is not. I have been... when you turn me, I grip too hard. I know I do." He had felt it during the last turning—the way his fingers dug into her flesh, seeking purchase against the pain. "Please. Let me see."
"There is no need—"
"Eleanor." The name slipped out without permission. "Please."
She hesitated, then slowly—reluctantly—moved back to the bedside. She set down the candle and extended her arm.
Even in the dim light, Aubrey could see the marks. Dark bruises circling her slender wrist like a bracelet. The imprint of his fingers, clear and damning.
Something twisted in his chest.
"I did this," he stated quietly.
"It is nothing." Her voice was even.
"It is not nothing. I hurt you." He looked up at her face, saw the exhaustion there, the shadows under her eyes, the pale skin made paler by sleeplessness. "I am sorry. I did not mean to. I did not realise…"
He stopped because Eleanor was staring at him with the most peculiar expression. Perplexed. Almost... confused.
"What?" Aubrey asked. "What is it?"
