His thumb presses lightly against the base of it before he reaches into his pocket and draws out a square of linen. He wraps the cloth around my finger carefully, pressing it in place. The linen drinks the red instantly.
"Hold still," he murmurs.
I do.
His hands linger, adjusting the knot, his thumb brushing the inside of my palm as he ties it. I feel the warmth of his skin through mine.
I keep my eyes lowered, watching the white cloth turn red.
"I did not mean to make such a mess," I say quietly.
"It is only glass."
His gaze lifts to my face. I feel it before I meet it. It rests there, heavy and searching. My cheeks burn with guilt. Shame crawls up my throat and settles there, choking me. I think of the forest. Of my skin beneath another’s mouth. Of the marks at my throat.
I draw my shawl closer without meaning to.
"You rise early."
"Yes, Father."
"For prayer?"
"For cleansing," I answer before I can stop myself.
The word hangs between us.
His fingers tighten faintly around mine before he releases them and moves toward the small cabinet near the altar. I remain where I am, while water spreads thin and silent across the stone. My hand hovers at my chest, fingers curled over the wound. Blood warms the cloth, sticky against my skin.
Popa Vasile disappears behind the icon screen. I hear the faint scrape of wood, the soft thud of a cabinet closing. When he returns, he carries another small bottle, its glass catching the morning light in a pale shimmer. He stops close and places it carefully into my uninjured hand.
"Here."
He takes my wounded hand again, gently lifting it to inspect the cloth. The blood has slowed. A thin line remains bright along the cut.
"You must keep it tight," he instructs, adjusting the wrap with steady fingers. "Do not let it reopen."
"Yes, Father," I murmur.
My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
His eyes rise to my face.
"You sought me yesterday," he says.
Heat floods through me. For a breath, I cannot form sound. My stomach drops, heart racing harder. I force my mouth into something that might resemble composure.
"I was frightened," I say, lowering my gaze. "After… everything. I thought perhaps there was still danger."
My fingers tighten around the bottle.
"But the men caught the wolf," I add quickly. "It is better now."
I feel his eyes move over my face. They rest there too long. I become aware of every inch of my skin, of the flush that still warms my cheeks, of the faint tenderness at my throat.
He knows.
The thought flares, bright and terrifying. He can see it. He can feel what I have done.
