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Sorcha stopped a few feet away. The oil from the bottle had seeped across the floor. Her gaze flicked to it and back up.

“I can clean that,” she offered softly.

Gavan’s laugh was harsh. “Aye. Of course you can. Scrub it until the stone is white again.”

Sorcha’s cheeks burned.

She took another breath. “Let me help you.”

“Nay.”

Sorcha’s hands clenched. “Please.”

Gavan’s eyes narrowed at the word. “I don’t need help,” he said.

The lie was ridiculous in the dim light, with the bottle on the floor and his arm held stiff.

Sorcha’s throat tightened with a terrible tenderness she did not want to feel. “You do,” she whispered.

Gavan’s gaze flashed like a knife. “You are not my healer.”

“Nay,” Sorcha said, voice shaking. “I am not.” She swallowed hard. “I am the woman who hurt you,” she whispered.

Gavan’s eyes narrowed further.

Sorcha stepped closer anyway. “Let me, just this once, because I know what it is to lose pieces of yourself and still be expected to stand proud.”

Gavan stared at her, his face a mask. “Fine,” he snapped. “Do it. And be quick.”

Sorcha’s heart pounded. She stepped towards the fallen bottle and crouched carefully, her wrapped hands clumsy. Oil slicked her cloth. She steadied herself and lifted the bottle with both hands, then rose and offered it to him.

Gavan took it with his left hand, like a man swallowing humiliation.

Sorcha glanced at his right shoulder, at the tension there, the tightness in his posture. “May I?” she asked quietly, lifting one wrapped hand.

Gavan’s eyes narrowed, but with a sigh of resignation, he turned slightly and lifted his right arm just enough to expose the curve of his shoulder and upper arm.

Sorcha’s breath caught at the sight. There was a scar there, not fresh, but unmistakable. A pale, puckered line, angry in certain light. She felt suddenly sick with guilt.

“Do not stare,” Gavan growled.

Sorcha blinked hard. “I do not.” That was a lie. She removed her own wrappings, then lifted her hand carefully and began to rub the liniment into his shoulder, slow and gentle. The oil warmed beneath her palm. His skin was warm, and the muscles beneath were tense.

Gavan’s breath came in harsh pulls. He held still, too still, like any movement would shatter his self-control.

Sorcha worked carefully, kneading the oil into tight muscles the way her mother had once done for aching joints and bruised backs after hard days. “It helps if you breathe.”

Gavan’s jaw tightened. “I breathe.”

Sorcha’s lips curved faintly in spite of herself. “Aye. But you do not let yourself breathe deeply.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire somewhere in the house, the wind pressing at the windows, the soft scrub of her hand against his skin. Gavan’s breathing deepened only slightly.

Then he said, voice low and hard, “Do not think this changes anything.”

Sorcha nodded. “I will not.”

His gaze flicked towards her face. “Good,” he said.