Relief flooded in. No way would she know that if Amka hadn’t sent her. “I knew Campbell,” he finally conceded. “Good man. Got caught up in something way beyond his control.” He leaned forward so she could see his face and lifted his eyebrows, nodding to indicate her head. “Can I…” Their eyes met for a long moment; hers flicked down to his mouth and back up. It sent a bolt of pure heat through him. He blinked and focused anywhere but on her lips.
At her nod, he examined her scalp, breath coming in fast and light. “I’m no expert, but this doesn’t look good.”
“We talking stitches?”
“Might be able to manage with butterfly bandages.” He grabbed his flashlight. “Let me check your pupils again.”
Both pupils contracted, so that was good. He set to work cleaning her wound, noting the way her body shifted, not moving, per se, but sort of sinking into itself, as if gravity and fatigue were finally taking their toll.
The silence between them had lulled him too, he realized, when she broke it. “What about you?”
“What about me?” He pressed a butterfly bandage to her head, moving on to the next one when it appeared to be holding.
“You get caught up too?” Her voice was low and rough.
He went still but didn’t respond. If she heard the shakiness of his breathing—and she had to, given how quiet it was—she’d know she hit a nerve.
“In something beyond your control?”
A dozen seconds went by in silence while his brain fought an internal tug-of-war. How good would it feel to share the burden?
No. Not now. She was injured. She needed to sleep. There’d be time to rehash it all later. If he decided to.
The secret, kept too close for too long, felt as impossible to let go of as an addiction.
Who would he be without it?
Didn’t matter. Who he’d been, who he could have become. This kind ofwhat ifconjecture served no purpose but to stir up regret. And he’d had enough of that for a lifetime.
Ignoring her question, he stuck another bandage to the cut on her head, then another, each press as gentle as he could make it. The laceration wasn’t what bothered him—it was the bump. Add to that her exhaustion and the dry heaving near the crash site and there was a good chance Leo whatever her last name was had a concussion.
He bit back a yawn, recognizing his own exhaustion for the first time—aching muscles, gritty eyes, heavy head. He worked hard to concentrate as he covered her injury with a clean white bandage. Yeah, so maybe she wasn’t the only one who was close to passing out.
“This’ll have to do for now.” He fought the urge to let his hand linger around her ear and shoved himself back, then up to standing. “Let’s rest.”
Her only response was a long, low hum. He unpacked a few more items and grabbed a bedroll, spread it beside the first, and caught a glance from her. “Not much room.”
“It’s fine.”
“You can go up the hall if you need to use the, uh…”
She shook her head.
And then, because he had the feeling she wouldn’t settle in until he did, he zipped himself up, careful to face away from her, definitely not touching but, by necessity, close.
Once she’d done the same, he doused the oil lamp. The silence that followed lasted so long he was convinced that she’d fallen asleep. Then: “What’s your name?”
He swallowed, considered pretending he hadn’t heard, and changed his mind. A first name couldn’t hurt, could it? “Elias.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Suits you.”
Eyes wide-open, he stared into complete darkness, breath held. Would she put the name with the face and figure out who he was? He hoped not. After her smiles, disapproval would kill him.
“Pretty sure you saved my life back there, Elias,” she finally whispered. “Thank you.”
