“What’s this?” Jack’s voice was sharp. “What? You want to take all the tea again?” she countered, not sure what he was talking about until she saw that he was gazing at her exposed arm and the line of stitches that held her wound together. “Oh. That. It’s nothing.” But Jack was tracing it with his fingertip, his eyes dark and gleaming as he studied the stitches. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” he said. “Who did this to you?” “It was an accident.” “By whose hand?”
