I dabbed the clean cloth gently against Alaric's injured hand, careful not to press too hard on his raw knuckles. The angry red cuts stood stark against his skin, already beginning to bruise around the edges. He barely flinched as I worked, his eyes distant and focused on something beyond the walls of our bedchamber.
"You should be more careful," I murmured, wrapping a fresh bandage around his hand. "These could easily become infected."
Alaric's laugh was short and humorless. "I hardly think a few split knuckles compare to what Alistair has endured."
I tied off the bandage with practiced fingers. "That doesn't make your pain any less worthy of attention."
He flexed his hand, testing the dressing. "The wound on your head—how does it feel?" His fingers brushed my temple where I'd been struck during the chaos at Lady Vivienne's ball.
"It's healing well," I assured him. "Just a mild headache now and then. Dr. Willis said it would fade within days."
