Page 48 of Bonded To The Arena Master

I lift my right hand, moving slowly enough that she can refuse. Her eyes track my claws as they approach. She remains where she is.

The back of one knuckle touches the outer edge of the bruise.

Human skin yields beneath contact that would barely register against carapace. Heat radiates from the injured flesh. I trace the unmarked border with the pad of my thumb, keeping the claw angled away.

Beatrix's hand settles around my wrist.

She could push me aside. Her grip prevents neither movement nor force. It rests there, warm and deliberate, accepting the care while controlling its limit.

"You saved my life," she says.

"I caused that bruise."

"The ceiling caused it. You improved my chances of surviving long enough to complain."

"You have never needed improved chances for that."

Her quiet laugh catches me unprepared.

The sound belongs to another decade, but not entirely. Age has roughened it. Experience has guarded it. Still, it enters a place I sealed when I accepted Asmodeus's bargain.

I lower my hand before memory becomes presumption.

Beatrix releases my wrist and checks the salve. Satisfied, she binds a loose strip of treated cloth around my forearm, securing it without restricting the plates.

"Leave that until tonight," she says. "If the exposed layer darkens, come back."

"You will inspect it tonight."

Her brows lift. "Is that an order?"

"Efficiency."

"Of course."

She reaches for a small jar and presses it into my palm. The mixture inside is pale blue rather than green.

"For the bruise," she says. "The guard can bring it when I need it."

I set it beside her bowl.

"Keep it here."

Understanding passes between us without another examination of the past. She will remain guarded. I will return. Her remedies provide the excuse, but neither of us mistakes it for the reason.

I rise. The ledge bears a new crack beneath where I sat.

Beatrix examines it. "Next time, use the floor."

"Acquire stronger furniture."

"Add it to Grolm's list."

I leave her arranging the surviving jars.

The guard falls into step behind me until I order him to remain at her door. My treated arm feels cool beneath the cloth. The sensation is unfamiliar, not because the injury has eased, but because another person chose to tend it and I allowed the choice to stand.

For ten years, solitude has served as armor. It prevented Asmodeus from finding another weakness. It kept every rival beyond the reach of anything I valued. I mistook the absence of danger for peace because both were quiet.