"You rode into battle," he said softly. "You brought the Welati. You saved my life."
"You would have done the same for me."
"That's not the point." His thumb traced slow circles on the back of my hand. "You're a warrior, Merrilee. A true warrior. Not because you killed or fought, but because you did what needed to be done when it mattered most. And I'm proud of you."
The words warmed me—unexpected and overwhelming.
Proud.
I blinked hard against the sudden sting of tears.
"Thank you," I whispered, my voice cracking.
He pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm on my face.
"You're magnificent," he said with absolute conviction. "And I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do."
"Merrilee—"
"Yes. You. Do." I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "And I'm not going to let you argue about it. Not now. Not ever."
His mouth curved into a smile—small and tentative but real.
"Stubborn."
"You have no idea." I returned to my work, cleaning the last of his wounds with steady hands.
I finished bandaging his arms, wrapping the worst of the cuts in clean white cloth. He sat still through all of it, patient and quiet, watching me like he was memorizing every movement, every touch.
When I was done, I sat back on my heels and surveyed my work. He looked like he'd been through a war—which he had—but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.
"Your turn," he said, standing slowly, carefully, his movements stiff with pain.
"I'm fine."
"You're covered in blood." He pulled me to my feet with surprising gentleness. "And you need to clean up before it sets."
He was right.
The blood was already drying on my skin, sticky and uncomfortable. My hair was matted with it—whether mine or someone else's, I didn't know and didn't want to think about. My clothes were ruined beyond saving.
Ahrick moved to the small basin in the corner and filled it with water from a barrel outside the door. He dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out.
"Come here," he said quietly, his voice gentle.
I went.
He started with my face—gentle strokes that wiped away the blood and grime, revealing skin underneath. His touch was careful, reverent, like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't gentle enough.
I closed my eyes and let him work, let him take care of me the way I'd taken care of him.
The cloth moved down my neck, across my collarbone, along my arms with patient, methodical care. He cleaned each finger individually, washing away the evidence of what we'd done, what we'd witnessed, what we'd survived.
"You're shaking," he said softly, his voice filled with concern.
"Adrenaline crash." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "It'll pass. It always does."
