I looked up at Kane, my voice soft and tremulous: “Kane?” My eyes shimmered, my cheeks pale from the bleeding, and my lips quivered. He swallowed hard, his voice rough with feeling.

“Mm?”

“Did… did you come just for me?”

His answer was simple: “Yes, because you’re hurt.”

I felt a pang of disappointment—so clinical, so devoid of emotion. I stepped out of his arms, wincing at my own vulnerability. I could still feel the faint scent of his herbal salve on me. “Let’s go… I’m starving. And my hand hurts. I want to sleep.”

He offered to blow on it to ease the pain, his awkward concern bringing a...