I have carried many things in my long, cursed existence—apples, daggers, secrets, broken hearts.

But carrying her, bleeding and barely conscious, through the door of The Hollow felt dangerously close to panic.

The sign outside had shimmered faintly before we entered, old magic woven into the wood. Protection. Suppression. A place where curses faltered and wounds could knit without interference. I had gambled on it. I do not like gambling when it comes to her.

Her breathing was shallow when I laid her on the narrow inn bed. Too pale. Too still. The mirror curse between her and Apollo had lashed out viciously—glass and magic tearing into her back like punishment for daring to survive it.

I gathered the supplies with steady hands. My face was calm. It always is.

Inside, something darker prowled.

“I’ll need to cut off your dress,” I told her.

Her cheeks flushed, which would have amused me under different circumstances. She didn’t protest. Brave girl. Always braver than she ought to be.

The blade slid through silk like a whisper. I peeled the fabric carefully away from her back—

And stopped breathing.

The gash was deep. Angrier than I had expected. Magic had split skin the way lightning splits trees.

Careful, I reminded myself. If she dies, you will never forgive yourself.

She hissed when I pressed the cloth to clean the wound. My jaw tightened.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured weakly. “Do you usually travel with girls who’ve been flayed?”

Despite everything, I laughed—soft and low. “No.” I glanced at her, a dangerous glint slipping through. “Would you be jealous if I did?”

She nodded before she could stop herself.

Ah.

That pleased something wicked and possessive in me.

“It’s all right,” I said lightly. “I’d probably kill a man if I saw him with you like this.”

It wasn’t entirely a joke.

My hands moved to her shoulders, and I tore away what remained of the sleeves to keep the fabric from sticking to the wound. She squealed, shooting me a look that practically shouted Was that really necessary?

I smirked. She forgets so easily. I hear the thoughts she doesn’t speak.

“No,” I replied smoothly. “But everyone should have their clothes ripped off at some point.”

Her mortification was almost enough to distract me from the blood. Almost.

I finished cleaning the gash, ensuring no slivers of cursed magic lingered beneath her skin. Only once I was satisfied did I lean back slightly.

“I’ll have to bandage you now.”

Her expression shifted—flustered, wary, stubbornly proud even while half-dressed and wounded.

I arched a brow. “I can close my eyes,” I offered, magnanimous as any prince of heartbreak. “But I’ll have to feel my way around your body.”