"You're not fine. You're scraped, bruised, possibly concussed from that fall during the chase, and definitely in shock." He opens the kit with practiced efficiency. "Strip down to your underwear so I can check for wounds you might not have noticed in the adrenaline rush."
My face burns. "Absolutely not."
"This isn't negotiable."
"The hell it isn't." I back up a step, putting the table between us. "You don't get to order me to strip just because you decided I'm yours now."
Something flickers across his face. Not anger. Maybe irritation. Maybe something like respect. "Let me take a look at you. There might be deeper wounds hidden under clothing. If I don't treat them now, you'll be dealing with infection in a wilderness cabin with limited medical supplies. Use your scientific brain and tell me which option makes more sense."
He's right. I hate that he's right. But the thought of stripping down in front of this cold, dangerous man who looks at me like I'm a problem to be solved makes my skin crawl.
"I can treat myself." I hold out my hand for the medical kit. "Just give me the supplies and some privacy."
He studies me for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, nods. "Fine. You've got the bathroom." He gestures to a door on the far wall. "Everything you need is in there. Clean water, towels, soap. You've got ten minutes to clean up and treat what you can reach. Then we eat and we plan. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"And Neve?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "Don't lock the door. If you pass out from blood loss or shock, I'm not breaking down my own door to get to you. I'll just let you bleed out and solve my problem the easy way."
The threat is delivered so matter-of-factly that it takes me a second to process. He's not joking. Not exaggerating. Just stating fact. If I'm more trouble than I'm worth, he'll let me die.
I take the medical kit and retreat to the bathroom without another word.
The bathroom is small but functional. A composting toilet. A basin with a pump for well water. A tiny mirror mounted above it that shows me how terrible I look. Blood and dirt smeared across my face. Leaves and twigs caught in my hair. The wild eyes of someone who's been hunted and barely escaped.
I strip off my jacket carefully, wincing as the movement pulls at scraped muscles. The thermal shirt underneath is torn inseveral places, stained with blood and dirt. My hands shake as I peel it off, revealing the full extent of the damage.
Scrapes and cuts cover my arms and torso, some superficial, some deeper. Bruises are already forming, dark purple and yellow spreading across my ribs where I must have hit something during the fall. My palms are the worst, embedded with dirt and small stones from when I went down hard.
I pump water into the basin and start cleaning. The well water is shockingly cold, making me gasp when it hits open wounds. But cold is good. Cold reduces swelling. Cold keeps me alert when every part of me wants to curl up and shut down.
Through the thin door I hear Magnus moving around the cabin. Opening cabinets. The clink of dishes. The strike of a match and the whoosh of gas igniting as he lights the stove. Domestic sounds that seem wrong coming from a man who wears weapons like accessories and speaks in kill orders and death sentences.
I work methodically, using my scientific training to compartmentalize the pain and focus on the task. Clean the wound. Apply antiseptic. Bandage if necessary. Move to the next wound. Don't think about the men with rifles or the women on that SD card or the fact that I'm trapped in a wilderness cabin with a criminal who claims ownership of me like I'm a possession instead of a person.
Just clean the wounds. Treat the injuries. Survive the next ten minutes.
The wind howls louder outside, rattling the small window. Snow pelts against the glass with increasing fury. The storm Magnus predicted is here, sealing us in together for however long it takes to pass.
Days, he said. Maybe weeks.
I catch my reflection in the mirror again. Behind the blood and dirt and terror, I barely recognize myself. The womanstaring back at me isn't Dr. Neve Dalton, wildlife biologist with a grant and a research plan and a future mapped out in academic journals and field studies.
She's prey who survived being hunted. She's a witness with evidence that makes her a target. She's a woman trapped in isolation with a dangerous man who saved her life and claimed her in the same breath.
Ten minutes pass. Maybe more. I've done what I can with the injuries I can reach, bandaged what needs bandaging, cleaned what needs cleaning. I pull my thermal shirt back on despite the tears and stains because the alternative is walking out there half-dressed and I'm not ready for that level of vulnerability.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Magnus is at the stove, stirring something in a pot. The smell of food makes my stomach clench with sudden hunger. I can't remember the last time I ate. Before the footage. Before the chase. Before everything went to hell.
He turns as I enter, eyes doing a quick assessment of my cleaned-up state. "Better. Sit."
This time I sit. Partly because my legs are shaking again, partly because fighting every single order is exhausting, and partly because I need to eat if I'm going to think clearly about what comes next.
He brings two bowls to the table, setting one in front of me. Some kind of stew, thick and steaming. Then he sits across from me, close enough that I can see the flecks of darker blue in his ice-blue eyes, far enough that I don't feel immediately threatened.
For a moment we just sit there, the silence broken only by the wind howling outside and the wood stove crackling in the corner. Then he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine.
"Start talking. Every detail. Every face on that footage. Everything."
