Maxwell’s throat tightened. “Ariella.”
Her head lifted a fraction. Her eyes met his for the briefest moment, then slid away again as if the contact burned.
“Aye?” she asked quietly.
The word was simple. But her tone carried distance. Guarded. Too careful.
Maxwell swallowed. “Are ye well?”
A pause.
“Aye,” she said. “I am fine.”
It was the same lie he had given her for weeks.
Hearing it from her felt like a blade turned back on him.
Maxwell forced his voice to remain even. “Ye’ve been working since dawn. Ye should rest.”
Her mouth tightened. “There are wounded men.”
“I have others to tend them,” Maxwell replied, then regretted it immediately because her eyes flashed up, sharp.
“Others,” she echoed softly. “Yes. Of course.”
Hunter glanced between them, brow furrowing.
Maxwell felt suddenly exposed, as if the whole hall could see what he had done, what he had broken.
He said, quieter, “Ye did well today.”
Ariella’s lashes lowered. “It was necessary.”
Her tone was polite.
Polite the way strangers were polite.
Maxwell’s stomach turned.
He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close, to demand she look at him the way she had in the dark, the way she had when she believed he wanted her.
But her body language said keep away.
And worse, he sensed fear in it.
That uncertainty gnawed at him more than any enemy.
Finley appeared behind Maxwell, voice low. “Let her breathe.”
Maxwell ignored him.
He watched Ariella turn away again, her hands clasping together as if to keep them still.
Hunter shifted, awkward. “I’ll go to the healer,” he said gently to Ariella, trying to mend what he didn’t understand. “Ye should rest too.”
Ariella nodded without looking at him. “Aye.”
Hunter left.
