"What do you want to ask?"
His voice was calm, smooth, like he already knew the answer.
The wind swept through the courtyard, tugging strands of my hair across my face, but I didn't look away from him. He stood a few paces ahead, his figure half-shadowed beneath the dim light of the lanterns. I parted my lips, about to speak, when something sharp slid into my senses.
Blood.
The breeze carried it to me, faint but unmistakable. My gaze darted down, narrowing on his left arm. His shirt was dark, cut from fabric thick enough to hide stains, but no cloth could mask the smell, especially not with the short distance between us. My stomach tightened.
"You're hurt," I said.
He followed my eyes to his sleeve, then lifted it slightly as though humoring me.
A smirk curved his lips. "Just a scratch."
Just a scratch. The words sounded careless. What else happened while he was gone? The hollows beneath his eyes told me enough that hadn't been sleeping well. Maybe not at all.
