[AMAL POV]
He sat clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers, his face pale with pain and exhaustion. His merchant's robes were ruined, and there was a gash across his forehead that had painted half his face crimson.
For a moment, I simply stared, my mind reeling. How had he found this place? The path to my forest home was known only to me, hidden and treacherous enough to deter casual wanderers. Yet here he was, bleeding in my sanctuary.
The questions could wait. The man was dying.
I stepped into the clearing, making just enough noise to announce my presence. His head snapped up, and despite his obvious pain, his eyes cleared with something that looked like relief.
"Oh," he said, his voice rough. "It's you."
"Don't talk." I approached cautiously, my healer's instincts warring with my suspicion. "Ya Allah...You're losing too much blood."
He tried to shift position and winced. "I seem to have a talent for appearing at inconvenient moments."
"How did you find this place?"
"Honestly?" He managed a weak, self-deprecating smile. "I was running for my life and took every turn that looked like it might lead away from the men with swords. Pure luck that I ended up... well, here."
I studied his face, searching for deception. His eyes were clearer now, though still tight with pain. "You just happened to stumble onto the one path that leads to my home?"
"Terrible sense of direction, apparently." He gestured weakly at his bloodied state. "Though given how this day has gone, I'm not entirely surprised."
Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost. "You're not making sense."
"No, I suppose not." He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closing his eyes briefly. "I was riding back from Qadsia when bandits attacked. My horse threw me somewhere near the old watchtower—you know the one? I've been stumbling through these woods for hours."
The watchtower. That was nearly two miles from here, and the terrain between was treacherous. For him to have made it this far, injured...
"You're either very lucky or very determined," I said quietly.
"Lucky, definitely. Determined... well, I suppose I didn't fancy dying alone in the woods." He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Though I have to admit, finding you here feels like more than luck."
"Don't read too much into it."
"Wouldn't dream of it." There was something in his voice. "I know you have every reason to leave me here."
The words hit harder than I expected. Because he was right. I could walk away. I should walk away. But looking at him now—pale, bleeding, trying to make light of what could be his last moments—I couldn't do it.
"This doesn't change anything," I said, kneeling beside him. "Between us, I mean. The rose, what you said..."
"I know."
"And after I tend to your wounds, you leave. You forget how to find this place."
"If that's what you want." He met my eyes, and for a moment his merchant's mask slipped entirely. "Though I have to say, my sense of direction is genuinely terrible. I probably couldn't find my way back here if I tried."
Despite myself, I found my lips twitching. "That's... probably for the best."
"Probably."
I helped him to his feet, supporting most of his weight as he swayed. "There's a place nearby where I can work properly."
"I can manage—"
"No, you can't." I whistled softly, and Malik appeared through the trees. "We'll use him."
The journey to my dwelling was slow and punctuated by Noah's carefully controlled breathing. He didn't complain, but I could feel the tension in his body, the way he fought not to lean too heavily on me.
"Your horse," he said as we walked. "What's his name?"
"Malik."
"Malik. 'King' in Arabic, isn't it?"
I glanced at him, surprised. "You know Arabic?"
"A little. Trade languages, mostly. Is that... is that your language?"
I didn't answer immediately. "One of them."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't." But the question stirred something uncomfortable in my chest. When was the last time someone had asked about my language, my origins? When was the last time someone had shown even passing interest in who I was rather than what I could do for them?
At my dwelling, I helped him onto the pallet and began gathering my supplies. My hands moved with practiced efficiency, but my mind was racing. Having someone in my space—my sanctuary—felt like a violation, even if I'd invited him in.
"You're very organized," he observed, watching me work.
"I have to be." I began cleaning his wounds, forcing myself to focus on the task. "Living alone, you learn to be prepared for anything."
"How long have you been alone?"
The question was gentle, but it made my hands still. "Long enough."
"I'm sorry. I know it's not my business, but—"
"It's not." I resumed cleaning his wounds, perhaps a bit more briskly than necessary. "And I'd prefer to keep it that way."
"Of course." He was quiet for a moment, then: "You're very good at this."
"Practice."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
I looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"
"I mean someone who's this skilled at healing wounds has probably seen too many of them." His voice was soft, careful. "And I'm guessing not all of them were on strangers."
The observation was too close to the truth. I focused on bandaging his ribs, using the familiar motions to center myself. "Everyone gets hurt eventually."
"Not everyone learns to heal themselves."
"The smart ones do."
"The smart ones also usually don't live alone in the forest."
I tied off the bandage with more force than necessary. "The smart ones do what they must to survive."
"Survive what?"
The question hung between us like a blade. I could feel him watching me, waiting, but I couldn't—wouldn't—answer. Some doors were meant to stay closed.
"That's not your concern."
"Isn't it?" His voice was stronger now, more like the confident merchant I'd met in the marketplace. "You're saving my life. I think that gives me some right to understand who you are."
"You know who I am. A woman who lives in the forest and occasionally ventures to the marketplace for supplies."
"That's what you do. It's not who you are."
I finished with his bandages and sat back on my heels. "And who do you think I am?"
He considered this, his merchant's mind clearly working. "I think you're someone who's been hurt enough times to know that isolation is safer than trust. Someone who's learned that kindness often comes with a price." He paused. "I think you're stronger than most people could imagine, and more afraid than you'd ever admit."
The words found their mark with uncomfortable accuracy. I stood abruptly, needing distance. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough."
"You know nothing!" The words came out sharper than I intended. "You know nothing about what I've endured, what I've survived, what I've had to become!"
"Then tell me."
"Why?" I turned on him, my carefully maintained composure cracking. "So you can pity me? So you can look at me with those sympathetic eyes and tell me how sorry you are?"
"So I can understand why you're so afraid."
The simple statement stopped me cold. We stared at each other across the small space, and I could feel something shifting between us—something dangerous and terrifying and inexplicably compelling.
"I need air," I said finally, my voice barely steady. "Rest. I'll check on you later."
I fled before he could respond, leaving him alone in my sanctuary as I stumbled into the fading daylight. My chest felt tight, my breathing shallow. When had I become so fragile? When had a stranger's gentle questions become enough to crack my armor?
Malik was waiting for me in the clearing, his dark eyes patient and knowing. I pressed my face against his warm neck, breathing in his familiar scent.
"What am I doing?" I whispered. "I should have left him. I should have walked away."
But even as I said the words, I knew they were lies. I could never have left him there, bleeding and helpless. It wasn't in my nature, despite everything I'd learned about the world.
I stayed with Malik until the stars emerged, wrestling with my conscience. The man in my dwelling was injured, probably hungry, and undoubtedly in pain. Whatever his reasons for being in the forest, whatever game he might be playing, right now he was simply a human being who needed help.
And I was the only one who could provide it.
When I finally returned, I found him exactly where I'd left him, though his eyes were open and alert. The color had returned to his face, and his breathing was steady.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd decided to let me starve," he said with a weak but genuine smile.
"The thought occurred to me." I busied myself with lighting a small fire, keeping my voice carefully neutral. "Are you hungry?"
"Famished."
I prepared a simple meal, adding herbs that would help with his pain and healing. As I worked, I could feel his eyes on me, but not in the calculating way I'd expected. There was something different about his attention now—less like a merchant evaluating goods and more like a man trying to understand something that puzzled him.
"Here," I said, handing him a bowl. "Eat slowly. Your stomach won't handle much at first."
"Thank you." He took the bowl, his fingers brushing mine briefly. "For everything. I know this isn't easy for you."
"Having an injured stranger in my home? No, it's not."
"That's not what I meant."
I looked at him sharply. "What did you mean?"
"I meant trusting someone enough to help them." His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "I think that's probably the hardest thing you've done in a long time."
The observation was too accurate, too close to truths I didn't want to examine. I turned away, busying myself with unnecessary tasks.
"Don't make this into something it's not," I said. "I'm not trusting you. I'm helping you. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." But even as I said it, I wondered if I was lying to him or to myself.
As he ate, I found myself stealing glances at his face. The firelight softened his features, made him look younger somehow. Less like the polished merchant from the marketplace and more like... well, like a man who'd had a very long, very difficult day.
"You know," he said between careful spoonfuls, "I have to admit, this isn't how I imagined spending my evening."
"Bleeding in a stranger's forest dwelling?"
"Well, that part's new." He gestured around the space with his spoon. "But I was actually referring to having dinner with a beautiful woman by firelight."
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "This isn't dinner. It's... medical care."
"Medical care that tastes surprisingly good." He took another spoonful, considering. "What's in this? Besides the obvious 'herbs that will keep me from dying' ingredients."
"Wild onions, garlic, some mushrooms I found yesterday." I found myself relaxing slightly despite my better judgment. "The herbs are willow bark for pain, and echinacea for healing."
"Echinacea." He nodded seriously. "I'll have to remember that for my next near-death experience."
"Your next—?" I stared at him. "You're planning on this happening again?"
"Well, given my apparent talent for wandering into dangerous situations..." He shrugged, then immediately regretted the movement. "Ow. Right. Shoulder wound."
"Don't move like that."
"Yes, doctor." There was something in his tone—not mocking, but gently teasing—that made my lips twitch despite myself.
"I'm not a doctor."
"No? You could have fooled me. Very professional bedside manner. Excellent wound cleaning technique." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Though I have to say, your waiting room could use some work."
I looked around at my sparse dwelling—the rough wooden walls, the simple 'furniture', the bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling. "My waiting room?"
"Very rustic. I appreciate the aesthetic, but perhaps a few cushions? Maybe some reading material? I don't know, 'The Merchant's Guide to Not Getting Stabbed by Bandits' or something equally practical."
Despite myself, I felt a laugh bubbling up in my chest. I tried to suppress it, but it escaped as a snort of amusement. "That's... that's not a real book."
"It should be. I'd buy ten copies." He was grinning now, clearly pleased with himself. "Chapter one: 'Why Taking the Scenic Route Through Bandit Territory Is a Poor Business Decision.'"
"Stop." But I was smiling now, actually smiling, and it felt strange. When was the last time I'd smiled like this? When was the last time someone had made me laugh?
"Chapter two: 'The Importance of Traveling with Armed Guards Instead of Optimism.'"
"You're ridiculous."
"Chapter three: 'How to Recognize When Your Horse Is Trying to Tell You Something Important.'" He took another spoonful of soup, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "My horse, by the way, tried to warn me about those bandits. Kept tossing his head and prancing around like he was trying to tell me something."
"What did you do?"
"Ignored him completely. Figured he was just being dramatic." He shook his head ruefully. "Turns out horses are better at reading dangerous situations than merchants."
"Where is your horse now?"
His expression sobered slightly. "Ran off when the bandits attacked. Can't say I blame him—he's got better survival instincts than I do."
"He'll probably find his way back to town."
"Probably. He's smarter than me, anyway." He met my eyes. "Speaking of which, I should probably thank you properly. For all of this. I know you didn't have to help me."
The gratitude in his voice was genuine, and it made something uncomfortable twist in my chest. "You already thanked me."
"Not properly. I was bleeding and delirious. Hardly counts."
"It counts."
"Does it?" He set down his empty bowl and leaned back slightly, studying my face. "Because I get the feeling you're not used to people thanking you."
The observation was too close to the truth. I stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something with my hands. "I should check your bandages."