His eyes tracked the movement of my hand, and I felt his expression turn to stone. He quickly released my wrist and tried to stand, but I caught his hand, anchoring him to the spot.
"Why?"
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"
"I needed to make certain you were alright," he said lowly, still refusing to look at me.
"At the expense of your own health?"
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye and shrugged. "I am fine. It is just a scratch."
"No, it isn't." I gripped his shoulder and turned his back to face me like a worried mother. His tunic was a deep shade of blue, far from white, yet the blood-soaked patch was unmistakable. With just a single touch, my palm was slick with his blood.
"This is nothing close to a scratch," I said, my voice trembling as I stared at his back. I wondered how it had happened—had he fallen too, or was it the jagged branches of the forest? "You have to be treated. Now."
