Something about the way he saidhelplessmade her bristle. Just slightly. Just enough to feel almost like herself again.
"I'm not—"
"You were freezing. Your ankle was injured. You were alone in unfamiliar territory with enemies pursuing you." His gaze finally lifted to meet hers. "You were helpless. That isn't an insult. It's a fact."
Delia opened her mouth. Closed it. He wasn't wrong, and they both knew it.
"Other arm," he said.
She offered it.
This time she was prepared for the warmth of his hands. For the way his fingers dwarfed hers so completely that when he turned her wrist, her whole hand disappeared within his grip. For the methodical efficiency of his movements.
He finished wrapping her other arm and sat back, hands resting on his thighs.
"Among my people, caring for something fragile is considered an honor." His eyes held hers. "Not an insult."
Delia's throat felt tight.
"Now your ankle."
She'd been dreading this.
Her right ankle had swollen badly overnight. She could feel it pressing against the leather of her shoe, could feel the throb of blood and damaged tissue with every heartbeat. She'd been trying not to think about it. Trying not to consider what it meant for her ability to run, to escape, to do anything except sit here and be helpless, just as he said.
Ralvar was already reaching for her foot. "May I?"
She nodded.
He unlaced her shoe, each tug precise and controlled. When he finally eased the leather away from her foot, Delia hissed through her teeth.
Oh.
It was worse than she'd thought. The ankle was purple and swollen, distended to nearly twice its normal size. She could barely see the bones beneath the puffy, discolored flesh.
"That's... bad," she whispered.
Ralvar's jaw tightened. It was the first real reaction she'd seen from him. The first crack in that stoic mask.
"Can you move it?"
She tried. Pain lanced up her leg, so sharp and sudden that she gasped.
"Don't." His hand closed around her calf, holding her still. "Don't force it."
"Is it broken?"
He probed gently along the swollen flesh, his fingers finding bone beneath the damage.
"A bad sprain," he said finally. "Possibly a small fracture. The bone isn't displaced."
"Can I walk on it?"
The look he gave her was answer enough.
"You can barelymoveit, and you're asking if you can walk?"
"I have to be able to—" Her voice cracked. The reality of her situation crashed back in—the guards, the search, the inability to run. "If I can't walk, I can't—"
