“Should they?”
“Everyone's hands shake when they touch me. Fear response. The body knows what the mind won't accept.”
“My body has terrible instincts.” I probe the edge of the wound, checking for heat, for swelling, for the telltale signs of infection spreading. “Already established.”
“That's not what I...” He stops. Breathes out, slow and controlled.
I don't look up. I keep working. Apply fresh herbs, rewrap the bandage, tie it off. His eyes track my hands the whole time, that strange fixed attention that should probably unnerve me and doesn't.
When I finish, I sit back on my heels and look at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” But his gaze stays on my hands for another moment before it drops to my wrist.
His hand moves. Slow, deliberate, like he's fighting himself with every inch. It hovers in the air between us for a moment, trembling slightly. Then it settles, feather-light, against the back of my wrist.
I go still.
The heat from his hand seeps into my wrist. Rough, that bark-like texture, but gentle. So gentle it doesn't make sense. His fingers could snap my wrist without effort. Instead, they rest there, barely touching.
“I haven't touched someone like this in a very long time,” he says. His voice has gone quiet. Almost wondering. “Without hurting them. Without wanting to hurt them.”
“Do you want to hurt me?”
“No.” The word comes out raw. “That's the strangest part. I don't want to hurt you at all.”
His thumb shifts against my wrist, a small motion, barely perceptible, and I feel it everywhere.
My breath catches. I don't let myself look at his face.
He pulls back. His hands retreat to his sides. The distance returns. But I can still feel it. The ghost of heat on my skin where his fingers rested.
“You should sleep for a while,” I say, because I need to say something, need to fill the silence before it fills me. “Real sleep. Not that creepy statue thing you did last night.”
“I don't sleep near others.”
“So you’ve mentioned. Why?”
He's quiet for a long moment. The fire crackles. Wind moves through the holes in the roof.
“When I sleep, I dream. And when I dream...” He stops. Starts again. “The rage doesn't always stay contained. Sometimes I wake up and I'm not where I was. Sometimes there's blood.”
I should be afraid. Should feel the cold crawl of fear at the base of my spine, hearing him describe waking up covered in blood he doesn't remember spilling.
I think about his hand on my wrist. That feather-light touch. The wonder in his voice when he said he didn't want to hurt me.
“What if I stayed awake?” I ask. “Watched you. Woke you up if anything started?”
He looks at me like I've offered to walk into a fire for him.
“You would trust me that much?”
“You're oath-bound to protect me, right? So if the rage comes, it'll have to fight the oath first. And meanwhile, I'll be talking very loudly and possibly throwing things at your head.” I shrug. “Worth a try.”
“You're insane.”
“Probably. But you need sleep, or you're going to collapse, and then I'll have to drag your nine-foot unconscious body to the next village by myself. So really, this is practical self-interest.”
