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She paused, confused, and looked over her shoulder. “What’s with you? I don’t know you. You’re hot and cold. I don’t trust you.”
He hesitated and swallowed. “Who would I be?”
“You tell me? Because you aren’t a fucking Northman.”
He shook his head. “You’re right.”
She stilled, surprised that he’d offered her this. “Then who are you?”
“Not a Northman as you’d know one anyway.”
“Men are dangerous,” Tarley said, her antagonism now equal to his earlier. “I don’t know why the fuck I saved you.” She hated that the thought made her want to cry. She didn’t know why that was so, and yet the thought of him not being alive made her want to cry. And her making the choice to save him made her want to cry. And her feeling trapped made her want to cry. And her cut finger made her want to cry. She was immersed in her monthly flux, and that made her want to cry.
“Let me see it,” he said, taking another step toward her. He grasped her shoulders, turned her toward him, then reached for her hand.
Tarley resisted.
His hand on hers, he said, “I was traveling through Kaloma with… friends, and we got separated.”
She relaxed a degree. “And?”
“I’m not sure if you could tell, but I’m sort of hopeless in the wilds.”
Tarley hated that she wanted to smile at him, and resisted, but did release the hand coated in blood. “The fabric–”
“Where’s the wrap?” he asked.
“Hanging there–” She nodded at the wrap she’d used for his ribs.
Ollie gently grabbed her arm and led her across the camp, speaking as they went. “My horse got spooked, and I couldn’t get her under control. By the time I realized we were headed right toward a drop off, it was too late.”
“You fell?”
“Right over a cliff. Landed on her—which is probably both what saved me but also broke me.” When they reached the fabric airing out on a branch of a tree, Ollie tore a small strip.
“You should be dead,” Tarley said, trying to imagine what had happened to him.
“Yes. That’s true. I’m shocked I’m standing here right now at all. Was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it. Only you made sure I did–” He folded the fabric, pressing it to the bleeding cut. “Why?”
Tarley worked her bottom lip with her teeth and watched him tie the bandage. When she looked up, she felt the truth sitting inside her mouth, a big round thing that needed dislodging so she could take a proper breath. She wasn’t going to say it. He was dangerous, only there was that feeling still tingling up her spine and traveling to her head that his danger wasn’t something she understood. The image that had flashed in her mind earlier—him standing near a tree smiling— resurfaced.
When she looked up at him, he was concentrating on her wound. His lack of eye contact made her admit, “I wasn’t going to,” releasing the truth between them. “I was afraid.”
“Why did you?”
“I started to walk away, but as I did” —she stopped a moment, unsure why she was telling him this but continued anyway— “all I could think about was what if it were my brother lying there near death.” She looked up at him.
He turned his head away, his profile reflective rather than angry. When he turned back, he asked, “Why were you afraid?”
“I thought you might be a collector.”
Even in the dark she could see the questioning look that froze his features. He titled his head. “A collector? What’s that?”
“You aren’t from Kaloma are you?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know you. Why–”
“You have an accent I don’t know. And you don’t seem to recognize the normal things someone from Kaloma would know. Are you from a different kingdom?”
