"Fuck," I breathed, grabbing his shoulder for balance without thinking.
He didn't flinch. Didn't react at all to my hand on him, except to shift his weight slightly so I could lean more heavily if I needed to. I tried to pull back embarrassed, but he took both my hands, settling them on his shoulders, then reached for my trousers, easing them gently down over my knees and holding steady as I stepped out of them.
His expression tightened and he grunted. I looked down at my leg and immediately wished I hadn't. The branch had torn a ragged gash across the outside of my right thigh, maybe six inches long and deep enough that I could see the dark red of exposed muscle beneath the torn edges of skin. The flesh around it was swollen and angry, the edges puffy and discoloured—not the clean red of a fresh wound, but something darker, tinged with yellow. The makeshift bandage I'd tied around it hours ago had done nothing except press dirt and river grit deeper into the torn tissue.
He touched the skin around the gash carefully. To distract myself from the pain, I watched his face instead of the wound. Watched the concentration in his expression, the furrow between his brows, the way his beard shifted when his jaw tightened. He looked concerned but not panicked.
He opened the water skin and poured a thin stream over the wound, washing away dried blood and dirt. The water was cold and I gasped at the sting, my fingers digging into his broad shoulders. He paused immediately, making a low rumbling sound deep in his chest. It was strangely soothing and I closed my eyes, focusing on it as he continued more gently. The cleaning hurt. Not as much as the initial injury, but enough that I had to bite my lip to keep from making noise. He worked with steady efficiency, wiping away debris with a soft leather cloth.
Each pass of the cloth revealed more of the damage, and his expression grew more serious. He leaned closer, and I felt the warmth of his breath against my skin as he examined something near the deepest part of the gash. His fingers pressed gently along the edges and I flinched hard, a strangled sound escaping before I could stop it.
He pulled back immediately, his eyes finding mine. He said something and the tone alone made my throat tighten. I didn't need to understand the words. I knew that sound.I'm sorry. I know it hurts.
He reached into the leather pouch and pulled out a smaller bundle wrapped in what looked like dried leaves. When he opened it, a sharp, green smell hit me—medicinal, bitter, like crushed pine needles mixed with something earthier. He showed it to me before applying it, holding the poultice up so I could see the dark paste inside, then pointing at my wound and making a spreading motion with his fingers.
This goes on the wound. It will help.
I nodded, bracing myself.
The poultice was cold at first, then warm, then thankfully the pain began to recede. Not vanish, but soften, replacing it with a gentle numbness that made my eyes close in relief.
Oh god. That's... that's so much better.
He worked in silence, his movements sure and practiced, and I found myself starting to relax despite everything. Despite the strangeness of this place, the terror of the last few days, and the grief still raw in my chest, there was something deeply comforting about being cared for by someone who knew what they were doing. He smoothed the edge of each strip before moving to the next, checking the tension, adjusting where the leather sat against the poultice beneath. Like he was wrapping something precious.
Nobody had touched me like that in... I couldn't remember. Nathan had been efficient in everything, including affection. Quick kisses, perfunctory embraces, sex that felt like ticking a box. Even before the rejection, I'd been starved for this, for slow, deliberate care. For someone's hands on me that weren't in a rush to be somewhere else.
My eyes burned and I blinked rapidly, horrified at myself. Don't you dare cry. Not here.
When the wound was covered with the herbal paste, he pulled out strips of soft leather like those he’d used on Dev, and began wrapping my leg with careful precision. Not too tight, not too loose. Secure but not constricting. His hands were warm, and with the pain now bearable, I became more aware that I was standing in front of a very attractive man whose hands were on my skin and who’s warm breath was suddenly way too close to my bare thigh. I swallowed hard and fixed my gaze on a point somewhere over his left shoulder, willing my heartbeat to slow down. Professional. This is professional. He's treating a wound. That's all.
But then his thumb brushed my inner thigh as he adjusted the wrapping, and a shiver ran through me that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold. I hadn't reacted to anyone's touch in two years. Two years of numbness, of feeling like my skin was made of dead wood, of flinching away from casual contact because it only reminded me of what I'd lost. Nathan had broken something fundamental in me when he'd severed our bond—not just my heart, but my ability to connect physically with another person.
So why was every nerve ending in my body suddenly, traitorously alive?
He noticed. Of course he noticed. His hands stilled for just a fraction of a second, and when I risked a glance down, his eyes had gone very still, very focused, locked on the point where his fingers rested against my skin. Something shifted in his expression—not predatory, not inappropriate, just... aware. Like he'd felt the same current I had and was trying to make sense of it.
Then he blinked, cleared his throat, and went back to binding the wound with renewed efficiency. His ears were red. Were they red before? I couldn't tell in the firelight.
Get a grip, Ellie. The man is literally keeping your leg from falling off.
He finished the final wrap and tied it off with a neat knot, then sat back on his heels and looked up at me. His expression was satisfied—the quiet pride of someone who'd done good work—but there was something else there too. Something careful and warm that made my stomach flip.
The firelight played across his face, softening the hard angles, making his brown eyes look almost golden. He studied me with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. Like he was seeingme, not just an injured stranger. Like I was worth seeing.
My chest tightened.
He reached up slowly and tapped his chest with one large hand, right over his heart.
"Daska," he said clearly.
His name. He's telling me his name.
The gesture was so simple, so human, that I felt tears prick at my eyes again.
“Daska,” I repeated, and he nodded, and smiled. Warmth flooded through me at the sight of it, and suddenly he might have been a man from my own time, a colleague maybe, or a new friend. I swallowed hard and tapped my own chest, mirroring him.
"Ellie."
