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“That’s…interesting.”

“Yes.”

“Do not sound pleased with yourself.”

“I am not.”

“You have a face for that too.” She was watching me now.

Despite myself, my mouth moved.

She saw it.

Of course she did.

Later, the room was quiet except for our breathing.

She lay partly against my chest, one hand resting over my ribs. My ŭre had dimmed, though it had not disappeared completely. A faint silver-white line still pulsed beneath my wrist.

Her hand shifted slightly against my ribs, fingertips brushing the old scar along my side.

She paused.

“That one.”

I knew which one she meant.

The oldest.

The one I had stopped her from asking about.

“You said later.”

“I did.”

Her fingers stayed where they were, light enough that I could have moved away without effort.

I didn’t.

“Was that the one?”

“The one what?”

She looked up at me. “The one that almost killed you.”

Silence settled between us.

I could have corrected her. Technically, several wounds had contributed.

Blood loss.

Internal damage.

Too much time before treatment.

But the scar beneath her hand belonged to the worst of it.

“Yes.”