I look down at my hands. She's right. A fine tremor runs through them, barely visible, but there.
"No, I'm not."
"You are." Her hand covers mine, stilling its movement. "Maximus. I'm okay."
"You almost weren't."
"But I am." Her fingers thread through mine, squeeze gently. "Because you got there in time. Because you came for me."
"Of course I came for you." The words come out rough, raw. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I didn't think anything. I saw the stake coming, and then you were there." She tugs at my hand, pulling me closer. "You're always there."
I'm standing between her knees now. One hand still holding the cloth, the other clasped in hers. Close enough to see the flecks of amber in her dark eyes. Close enough to count each individual eyelash. Close enough to feel the cool brush of her breath against my face.
"I should finish cleaning this," I say.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"Maximus." Her free hand comes up, touches my face. Traces the line of my jaw, the corner of my mouth. Her fingers come away bloody; I didn't realize I was wounded there. "You're hurt too."
"It's nothing."
"Now who's minimizing?"
"I've had six centuries to practice."
"Show-off."
I laugh. The sound startles me.
She smiles, and something in my chest cracks open.
I finish cleaning her wound in silence. Apply pressure untilthe bleeding stops completely. Cover it with a clean bandage, my fingers lingering on her skin longer than strictly necessary.
"You should drink," I say. "Blood will speed the healing."
"Later."
"Celeste."
"I'll drink when you let someone look at your ribs." She nods toward my side, where my shirt is still soaked through with blood. "Deal?"
"I don't negotiate…"
"Deal or no deal?"
I sigh. "Deal."
She smiles again, and I realize I would agree to almost anything to keep that expression on her face.
"Sir."
Marcellus's voice cuts through the moment. I step back from Celeste, not far, not fast, but enough to establish some semblance of professional distance.
He stands in the doorway, his expression carefully blank. Blood streaks his face and arms, evidence of his own fighting, but he moves without obvious pain. Whatever wounds he took, they're already healing.
