The command tent smelled of sweat, oiled leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood that still clung to Aiden's skin. Lantern light flickered across the canvas walls, throwing long shadows that danced with every distant boom from the ridge.
The small breach had been sealed an hour ago, but the aftershocks still rippled through Aiden's body. His fractures glowed faintly beneath his torn shirt, golden cracks pulsing like live wires under his ribs and along his collarbone.
Isolde stood over the cot where he lay, her dark hair loose and damp with exertion. She wore only a loose linen tunic that barely reached mid-thigh, the fabric already sticking to the sweat on her breasts.
Without a word she swung one leg over him and settled down, knees planted on either side of his hips. Her weight pressed him into the thin mattress. She didn't ask. She never did.
"Still shaking," she murmured, sliding her palms flat over the worst fracture across his chest.
