Without another word, Levan dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it to her cheek. The sudden coolness made her flinch, her nose wrinkling, and her lips pressing tight as she clutched the clean towel he had given her to her chest, as if it could shield her from the weight of his silence.
Levan was not having it. "Hold still," he commanded.
She tried. Oh, she tried. Her lashes trembled as the damp cloth dragged across her dirt-streaked skin, wiping away the grime of the forest. His movements were not tender, but they were steady. When she turned instinctively from the cold touch, his hand came up, firm fingers finding the side of her face and holding her still.
"You're filthy," he muttered. The words should have stung, but they did not. His tone was so rough and tired that the bite got blunted by the strain in his voice as if the anger had burned itself out and left only ash behind.
