She does not look up. “You survived.”
“That answer is aging poorly.”
“And yet you keep returning to it.”
The salve bites cold when she spreads it across the cut. I do not flinch. She notices that too.
“You dislike losing control,” she murmurs.
“I dislike preventable inefficiency.”
“Call it whatever comforts you.”
I catch her wrist before she can pull away for the bandage. Her pulse jumps once against my fingers.
“Do you enjoy provoking me,” I ask, “or do you simply lack preservation instincts?”
Her gaze lifts to mine, clear and unsoftened despite the closeness. “Do you enjoy asking questions with answers already attached?”
For a moment the wound, the creature, the forest itself receded behind the sharper awareness of her kneeling between my knees with one hand trapped in mine and the other braced against my thigh for balance. Dangerous arrangements should be avoided. Instead I release her slowly enough to make the choice visible.
“Continue,” I say.
She binds the wound tighter than necessary. I almost admire it.
By the time night settles fully, we have made camp in a narrow crescent of stone where three boulders break the wind and force approach from only two sides. Fire remains small by design, fed with dry wood that smokes little and burns hot. The beasts are tethered within sight. Supper consists of hard bread softened in broth and strips of salted meat improved only by hunger.
The forest beyond the firelight murmurs constantly, distant clicks, wet rustles, branch creaks that resemble footsteps until listened to properly.
Aeryn sits opposite me, knees drawn slightly upward, cup warming her hands. She has regained enough color to look dangerous again.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” she says.
“Then you should be grateful I keep the thoughts to myself.”
“I doubt that would improve them.”
There it is again, that precise insolence sharpened to invitation.
I set my cup aside. “Tomorrow we reach a split in the ridge trail. One route descends toward water. One climbs into exposed stone. Which takes us nearer the forest’s interior?”
She sips before answering, buying time while pretending not to.
“Water is faster.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Then ask what you mean.”
I smile despite myself. “Which route would you choose?”
“Depends who I’m traveling with.”
“You’re with me.”
“Exactly why the answer changes.”
She offers no direction, only the shape of one. Deflection disguised as wit. Effective enough to be worth studying.