Daphne blinked at him, "I didn't exactly wander off. My horse?—"
"Your horse?" Ambrose shot back, gesturing to the stubborn animal that stood nearby. "Your horse isn't the one who decided to ride away from the group."
She opened her mouth to argue, but Ambrose cut her off, his tone sharper now. "Do you realize how dangerous this is? You could've been injured—or worse." His gaze darkened. "We're not in some well-manicured garden, Daphne. This is a forest."
Daphne stared at him, a little taken aback by the intensity of his words.
He had called her by her name. No Lady Daphne, no formalities. It was a slip of the tongue, of course. But it was enough to make her heart skip a beat.
The way he was speaking to her, despite the harshness of his words, there was something different about it.
Something she had never seen in him before like this. If she did not know any better, she would think that he is...worried.
The realization made her heart feel a bit funny.
Ambrose's gaze flicked downward, and he inhaled sharply. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice gruff.
He stepped closer, examining her.
Daphne frowned, confused by the sudden shift in his tone. "No, I'm perfectly?—"
"There's blood on you," Ambrose interrupted, alarmed.
She blinked again, glancing down at her own clothes before noticing a stain of red.
On his sleeve.
Some of it seemed to have dripped onto her.
"Wait... That's not mine, it's yours!" she exclaimed, finally understanding. "You're bleeding!"
Ambrose glanced down at his arm as if just realizing the wound existed. "Oh. Well, that is nothing to worry about," he yanked his sleeve down, as if it was something that happened to him all the time and deserved not even a second thought.
Daphne could hardly control the protective feeling that surged inside of her.
"You've been hurt this entire time and you're yelling at me?" she said, incredulous. Without a second thought, she moved towards him, intent on inspecting the wound herself.
Ambrose stepped back, his face a mix of surprise and irritation. "I don't need?—"
"Please," her voice was pleading. "The stain is getting larger. You will lose a lot of blood if you do not tend to it."
Something shifted in his expression, and he relented. Grumbling, he mumbled a faint agreement.
"Thank you," she said, relieved. "Sit on that rock. I will tend to your wound."
She towered over him as he sat down. It was a strange feeling – usually it was the other way around. Swiftly, she tore a piece of fabric from her own dress, quickly fashioning a makeshift bandage.
"This is unnecessary," he grumbled.
"It's completely necessary. What if it gets infected?"
Ambrose scoffed. "It's a scratch."
"A scratch does not bleed like that," she said, kneeling down in front of him and grabbing onto his arm with her thin fingers. She expected him to pull back, but he kept steady. His gaze seemed fixed on her, making her breath coming out faster.
Focus.
"More fabric," she muttered, going to tear another piece of her dress, exposing her legs for a brief moment before Ambrose stopped her.
