Yuna's pulse thundered in her ears, yet she did not pull her wrist away. His grip was iron, though his hand trembled. The strength he had left was born of desperation alone.
"I cannot leave you here," she said softly, meeting his suspicious gaze. "If you remain, you will die."
His brows furrowed. His lips parted as though to argue, but pain stole the words. The dagger slipped from his weakening grasp, clattering against the stones. Slowly, his grip loosened around her wrist.
Relief rushed through her, though it was quickly chased by fear. What was she doing? Bringing a wounded stranger—armed, dangerous—back to her household would be madness. Her family would demand answers, and none she gave would be sufficient.
No. She could not take him home.
With steadying breaths, she thought quickly. Just beyond the trees lay a forgotten hunter's shack, abandoned years ago when the estate's men had ceased their hunts in this part of the forest. It was little more than a crumbling shelter, but it was hidden, and more importantly, unclaimed.
"Can you walk?" she asked.
His dark eyes narrowed, as though testing her sincerity. He tried to shift upright, his jaw tightening, but the effort nearly drove him back to the ground. Yuna slid her arm beneath his and steadied him against her shoulder. For someone so injured, he felt impossibly solid, heavy with muscle beneath the torn fabric of his shirt.
He said nothing as she bore some of his weight, only gritting his teeth with every step. The silence between them was taut, every breath measured. To Yuna, it felt as though the forest itself leaned in to watch.
At last, the shack appeared—a shadow of timber half-hidden by ivy and moss. She pushed the rotting door open with her shoulder, guiding him inside. Dust stirred in the dim light, and the scent of wood long abandoned clung to the air.
"Sit," she said firmly, lowering him onto the rough bench against the wall.
He slumped, his hand pressed against his side. Even in his weakened state, his gaze never left her. There was a calculation in his eyes, a predator's watchfulness. She felt it, sharp as a blade against her skin, and yet she did not falter.
Gathering water from the stream in an old bucket, she returned and began to clean the blood from his wound. Her hands moved carefully, though her mind raced with unspoken questions.
At last, his voice broke the silence. Low, rough, but no longer hostile.
"You should have left me."
Yuna did not look up. "Perhaps. But I could not."
His lips curved faintly, though whether in bitterness or amusement, she could not tell. He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing her worth.
Finally, he leaned back against the wall, exhaustion dragging him under once more. His eyes closed, though his voice lingered like a whisper of steel.
"You are either very brave… or very foolish."
Yuna wrung the blood from the cloth, her pale hair falling across her cheek. Her heart thudded at the truth of it. Perhaps she was both.