She wouldn’t be used again or deceived again.

“People underestimate you because you underestimate yourself,” she told her reflection. “That stops now.”

She walked out of the bath, then stopped when she saw Bran at her open terrace doors, looking out.

“I need you to leave.”

He turned back, studied her as she stood, hair sleek and wet, her hand clutching the towel between her breasts. And insult and anger in her eyes.

“I have a salve.” He held up the small jar. “I can help with the wounds, and with the pain.”

“I don’t want—”

“Stop being a git. You’re not a stupid woman. You want to be pissed, be pissed,” he invited as his own temper clawed at him. “Stay pissed after I explain, that’s your choice to make, but now you’ll sit down and let me help.”

“You’re not in charge of me.”

“And thank the gods for that. But we’re all in this together, and I’ll do what I can to help the others in turn. But you took the brunt of it. Now sit down, and be pissed and smart.”

Refusing, she realized, was weak, was letting her hurt and disappointment cloud judgment. She needed to be strong and well to fight.

So she sat on the side of the bed.

He came over, set the salve down. And laid his hands gently on her head.

“That’s not—”

“Your head aches, that’s clear to see. She tried getting into your mind, didn’t she? And you’ve been crying. So your head hurts.” He brushed his thumbs over her temples, her forehead. “I’m not as good at this as others, but with you being an empath—”

“I’m not.”

“For Christ’s sake, woman, don’t argue with what I know.” Impatience snapped, a whiplash. “You block most out, but it’s there. Use it now, in a kind of reverse, and that will help me help you. Let me feel it, open up and let me feel. We’ll start with the headache, as you’ll think clearer then.”

Because he was right, because there’d been impatience rather than pity, she closed her eyes, offered her pain.

“There now,” he murmured, and his fingers stroked her brow, her skull, her temples. “It’s a dark gray cloud.” He ran his hands down, pressed thumbs into the base of her neck. “It’s whisking away as a breeze comes up. Cool and fresh. Feel it.”

She did, and the horrible, gripping pressure eased. “Yes, that’s better. That’s better,” she repeated, and nudged his hands aside. “Thank you.”

“You’ve cuts and scrapes and bruises, and a puncture or two. The salve alone will do for that, but this gash needs more. Annika did a fine—what do they call it?—field dressing. She’s an array of disparate talents. Let me feel it.

“Yes, it’s hot, and it throbs.” And would scar if he couldn’t fix it. It surprised him how the thought of that upset him. “But it’s clean. Nothing to fester here.”

“How do you know?”

“You know, and I can see what you know here. Help me cool it now, help me close it.”

She lost herself in his eyes. It occurred to her later he must have taken her into some light trance, but her feelings seemed to touch his, like fingertips, and the heat of her arm cooled.

“That’s good now, that’s fine. And the salve will do the rest right enough.”

A little dazed, she looked down to see the gash closed, and no more than a long scrape remaining.

“But, that’s—”

“Magick?” he suggested. “It’s healing, and you’re doing most of the work. What about your leg? You’re favoring the right one.”

“I don’t know. I must have twisted or turned my ankle in the cave. When the bats . . .”

“We won’t think of them now.” He crouched, skimmed his hands over her ankle, eased back when she flinched. “Tender, is it? We’ll fix it.”

She understood now, let him in. Imagined the swelling, the tendons and muscles while his fingers circled and stroked.

Then he rose. “Your throat, that’s the worst of it, and the hardest. She touched you.”

“She didn’t. Not physically.”

“And that’s the deepest wound, you see? Her power against ours. I think it will hurt to heal this, at first. You have to trust me.”

“Then I will. For this.”

“Keep your eyes on mine. I don’t have what you have, but what I have will help you lift this away.”

He closed his hands lightly, gently, around her throat, covering the raw bruises.

It did hurt. A sudden shock of pain stole her breath, had her gripping the side of the bed to hold herself in place. She fought not to cry out—weak, weak—but a moan escaped.

“I’m sorry. A little more.”

He murmured in Irish now, words that meant nothing to her, but the tone, both comfort and distress, helped her bear it. Then, as the rest, it eased. The relief made her head spin.

“It’s better.”

“It needs to be gone. I won’t leave her mark on you. I should have stopped it.”

“You did. With blinding bolts of lightning. That’s enough. It doesn’t hurt.”

She shifted away, stood. “You should take the salve for the others.”

“That’s for you. I have more.”

“I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed. We all have a lot to talk about.”