“You will not be comfortable with much of anything if your wounds aren’t attended to,” he says in one of the lowest voices I’ve ever heard. Words reserved only for me. “I’m fine,” I insist. “Don’t lie to me.” He leans forward, inhaling deeply. “I can smell how much blood you lost; you’re beginning to stink a lot like death.” “Telling a lady she stinks. You really know all the right things to say, don’t you?” I fold my arms, ignoring the pain in my shoulders and just how right he is. “Sarcastic remarks aren’t going to mend your injuries.” “I can look after myself.” “Ah, yes, because a witch
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