Page 53 of Out of the Cold

“That’s not how I meant it. Not like before. But I can’t...I can’t worry about another person being hurt. I don’t have it in me.”

“Gabriel. Look at me.”

She waited until he’d dragged his gaze back to hers. “I’m tired, and I’ll be sore in the morning, but I’m not hurt.” She gripped the mug in her hands, willing him to hear her. “I need to believe I can take care of myself. Can you understand that?”

He nodded, his throat working. There was something more going on here, a private pain in his eyes when he looked at her again. “I understand.”

She wanted to ask who’d been hurt, but she didn’t want to upset him even more or drive him away.

Hilde got up from her spot by the fire and drank from her bowl again. Instead of lying back down, she made her way across the floor to Gabriel and lay her head on his knee. His whole body sagged into the chair, as if giving into something he couldn’t fight anymore. He looked down as his hand smoothed the fur on her head.

“I’ve always wondered what it must be like to be someone like you,” she said.

His weary expression turned to surprise. “In what way?”

“You’re stronger and bigger than almost anyone you meet. You can go wherever you want, do whatever you want.”

“Being strong is only worth something if you can protect the people you love.”

“None of us can protect the people we love from everything,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

His eyes were bleak. “Exactly.”

She watched him, wishing she could say something of comfort, but how could she when she didn’t know what they were talking about?

Petting Hilde seemed to soothe him. They sat for several more minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. He lifted his hand to pass it over his beard, the way she’d seen him do when he was thinking.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked. “Did you burn yourself?”

“It’s only a splinter. I haven’t had a chance to deal with it.”

“I shouldn’t have taken your gloves.”

“I have another pair. I just don’t always wear them when I should.”

Getting up, the blanket still wrapped around her, she took his hand in her own, marveling at how much bigger and stronger it was than hers. He didn’t try to pull away, but a stillness came over him.

Then his hand closed in a fist.

“Let me look.” Her voice came out in a whisper. She peered down, her thumbs smoothing his skin, stretching it so she could see better. Calluses ringed his palm, but the center was pink and angry-looking, a dark sliver visible beneath layers of skin.

“Lucy,” he said, his breath stirring her hair.

His voice was a deep rumble, so low she felt it in her bones, in her blood.

She was afraid to look at him. What had she started, anyway? He was a grown man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But this was something she could do for him.

“Wait here,” she told him.

In the bathroom she grabbed tweezers, alcohol, and a few cotton balls. Pulling her empty suitcase out of the closet, she found her little travel sewing kit and slid one of the needles out.

Back in the living room, she placed everything on a towel on the end table. She soaked a cotton ball and sterilized her instruments.

“You have a very serious look on your face,” he said.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

She was a head taller than him now, and his beautiful face was right before her, his dark lashes fanning over the fragile skin beneath his eyes. He smelled of sawdust and soap and forest. He smelled of fire.

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