Hella. The wrap. Stay there.
Her voice goes sharper, pitch climbing. "Six years of wrapping wrong doesn't make it right. It makes it six years of bad practice."
"She's embarrassed."
"She should be grateful someone caught it before her patient lost a hand."
I step closer. The bank is soft. My boots sink. I kneel—the mud giving under my weight, cold wet soaking through at the knee. She's crouched so we're almost level. Her face close enough to see the water droplets on her jaw.
Didn't mean to get this close. The wolf pushed and my legs just—
"You can be right and still be wrong about how you say it."
Her nose scrunches.
"Fine." Clean. No sulking. "I'll talk to Hella. Show her the technique. One on one."
"Good."
"Was that everything?"
"Dara says you're teaching her wound packing."
"She asked."
"You showed her everything."
"That's how teaching works."
"Healers usually keep their methods."
She looks up and her face is open—unguarded. "If I get hurt, or sick, or you send me away, someone needs to know how to pack a wound. No one should keep that kind of information to themself."
"Stop teaching Dara everything." I lean forward. "Keep something for yourself."
A strand of wet hair clings to her cheek. My hand cups her jaw, thumb swiping the hair back off her skin. Her face is cold from the water. Her pulse is not.
I should move my hand. I don't.
"That's terrible advice," she whispers.
"Probably."
"Definitely." The sharp edge has completely vanished from her voice. Softer underneath. Water running between us. Her hands still dripping. The light on the pale ends of her hair and my hand still at her jaw and—
"No one's sending you away."
Her pulse skips. Stutters.
Said too much.
"That's not what you said before." Not looking away. "You said I'm not part of this."
"I said you don't need to do it."
"Same thing."
"It's not."
