His gaze moved from Jack to the woman on the bed.
Silence stretched taut.
“Close the door.”
Nick obeyed, stepping inside and pulling it shut with a soft click.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask the obvious questions. He simply waited, the way he’d waited through decades of Jack’s silences.
In the growing firelight, she looked worse than he’d realized. Blood had dried in a dark rivulet from her temple to her jaw. A bruise bloomed purple across her cheekbone, the skin already swelling. Her arms and legs bore a map of scratches and scrapes, some still oozing, others crusted over with dried blood.
Her feet needed attention. “First aid?—”
“There’s a kit in the bathroom.” Nick was already moving.
Jack looked away from her feet, back to her porcelain face.
Fingers twitching, he studied her in stillness. Why had she turned back? She was so close to getting away. Why?
His hand moved slowly, hovering inches from her cheek. Then settled against her chilled skin, his thumb tracing the edge of the bruise with a gentleness that surprised even him. Her skin burned cold beneath his touch. Glass-like. Fragile as frost.
“Sir.” Nick’s voice came softly. Cautious. “The first aid.”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
“Shall I call for the medic?”
“No.”
“Her injuries require attention. The head wound alone?—”
“I said no.”
Nick fell silent. Jack sensed him watching, sensed the weight of his concern pressing against the space between them.
“Leave us.”
A pause. Then he set the first aid on the nightstand. “Sir, this is unlike you.”
“I’m aware.”
Nick’s concern pushed into him like a surging wave. “The protocols exist for a reason. The tributes are?—”
“I know what they are.”
“Do you?” Nick’s voice sharpened, the formal veneer cracking. “Because from where I stand, this looks less like charity and more like?—”
“More like what?” Jack turned, his storm-grey eyes meeting Nick’s with a ferocity that made the older man step back. “Say it.”
Nick held his gaze. Behind his glasses, his eyes carried the same quiet intensity they’d carried all those years ago, when he’d taught a broken boy about fallen kings and the weight of power.
“More like obsession,” Nick said quietly. “And I’ve seen what obsession can do to good men.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Leave.”
Nick didn’t move. “Jack.” The use of his name landed like a blow. “The road to ruin is paved by men who convinced themselves they were saving someone.”
Censure hardened in his eyes, but Jack didn’t care. Not this time. “Thank you, Mr. Carrow. That will be all.”
