I believe him so certainly, so completely, that the tension stiffening my body soon becomes a reaction to the frosty air around me, not the threat of his gaze.
It takes a while.
Lathering the cloth, rubbing my flesh raw, rinsing with the other cloth, then doing it all over again.
The dampness of my flesh is quickly attacked by the frostiness of the air around me, and I’m turning blue under the raw redness of my scrubbed skin.
My breaths are shuddering into choppy mists at my bruised lips.
I rush—until it comes to my wounded shoulder.
Then I soften the strokes of cloth around the tender flesh, wincing with each touch.
The bruising discolours my freckled skin, but it’s not torn and ghastly, it’s just a hole padded with some sort of moss, moss that I understand now to have stopped the bleeding.
I’m just as careful with my face, until finally, I toss the cloth to the foliage, then grab the brown jar.
The lid is loose already, as if done for me in advance, and so it pops off at a swift touch. I dip my fingers into the oil—and as I smear it onto my leg, I hesitate.
Brown like olive oil, but it doesn’t go on brown. It goes onwarm. It tickles, sort of, like those kinds of lotions meant to warm up muscle tension, but it doesn’t stink with menthol, and it glides over my skin better.
I’m generous with it—and the cold is starting to thaw from my body.
I rub it all over, every bit of myself that I can reach, and when I’m done, wiping my hands on a damp cloth, I look around for the warrior.
Chin turned to my good shoulder, I find him behind me, just out the corner of my eye.
Now, his gazeison me.
The cold green of his eyes flickers over my back, probably black and blue from when he slammed me down on that car.
Still, his steps don’t falter.
He considers my wounds, my poor condition, but doesn’t pause his casual pace.
I loosen a huff, then—reaching for the underwear—shift onto my bottom.
My legs lift out in front of me as I tug the underpants over my feet. The moment the briefs are hooked on, I flop onto my back, lift my bum, then drag them up.
The warrior stops.
The soft bootsteps circling me come to a sudden end with a scuffed sound, like a stagger or a falter.
I throw my gaze to him.
My cheek presses into the material of my parka, I am frozen in the most vulnerable of ways, and I blink at him just once before my heart stamps in my chest.
The warriorlooks.
He’s doing what he said he wouldn’t.
There’s a confusion in the faint furrow of his brow, a bewilderment, but that baffled look is aimed right at my pelvis.
My heart lurches.
I fling my gaze down my body, expecting to see something horrible—but there’s nothing…
My bum is lifted off the ground, the knickers barely tugged up all the way, and I’m looking down my body, searching for whatever he sees on me. But there’s nothing there.
