Being reckless and stubborn will get you nowhere, no matter how much strength you possess. Dettlaff had plenty of that—stubbornness, recklessness, and impulsiveness. Traits that only ever led him into trouble or, like tonight, wounds. He may be a high vampire, immortal in a sense, but the world was changing. The ancient creatures like him were slower now, caught in a world that spun faster with each passing century. Humans, creative and clever, had become more protective, not just against monsters, but even against each other. Witchers were a rare sight, yet humans had found ways to protect themselves.

Dettlaff had underestimated some of them, and now here he was, making low, grumbling sounds. His pride was as wounded as his back, courtesy of a silver sword. The Tesham Mutna ruins were quiet. Your horse was grazing somewhere outside, the soft sound of it munching on grass a contrast to the stillness around you. A single torch flickered from the remaining intact wall of the ruin. Cozy, perhaps, by Dettlaff’s standards. He sat on the makeshift bed, his back bare and exposed to you as you worked, gently rubbing the herbal balm over his wound.

He shifted under your touch, the burn of the treatment clear in the way he tensed, but he tried to sit still. Another shift, and you caught him glancing over his shoulder. You didn’t miss the way his head tilted subtly toward your hand, like he was leaning into your touch without realizing it. His claws were out, but you knew it was just an instinctive reaction, his body’s way of handling the pain.

The night remained quiet as you spread your hand across his shoulder blade. His muscles tensed at first, then slowly began to relax. It was fascinating to see how his skin flexed and muscles tightened under your touch. The torchlight flickered over him and for a moment, you were so absorbed that you didn’t notice the way he was watching you. His eyes, half-lidded, pupils drawn to tight pinpricks, intense and unreadable.

“Careful,” he muttered, his voice low.