“Veron, you’re hurt.” With a shake of his head and a smile, he pulled off his shirt and presented his bicep. The slash was already partially healed. “We recover quickly,” he said, although she dabbed at it with a clean washcloth. He took her hand. “I’m fine, Aless. Really.” He gazed down at her, his mouth curving, and there was a playfulness there. A teasing. So he thought she was overreacting. Maybe she was. But the notion of him being hurt—at all—made her worry so much that she didn’t know what to do with herself.
