When I open the bedroom door, I stop short—because Sel is leaning against the wall inches from my face, head tipped back, eyes closed.

“Jesus!” I exclaim. “Why are you out here?”

Without moving his head, his eyes open and settle on mine. Heart still hammering, I glare at him—and see that at some point during my mini breakdown, he’s changed clothes. He’s still in his black pants and boots, but instead of the bloodied and torn jacket and shirt, he’s now in a simple black tank.

His voice is gravelly, tired. “Looking for a first aid kit. Thought it might be in the owner’s bathroom.”

Ah. I see the makeshift bandage over his chest and collarbone. A square of folded-up paper towels tucked in place by the strap of his tank top. I wince. “That can’t be sanitary.”

“I don’t get infections,” he says, turning slowly against the wall to face me. “But a clean wound will heal more quickly and a covered one will stop ruining my clothing.” A pause. “Are you all right?”

I blink, processing the abrupt change in topic. “Yes. Just needed a shower.”

His gaze holds steady. “And before that?”

“Before that—” I stiffen. “Were you listening to me cry in the bathroom?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Ugh. ’mfine.” I start to rub my face with a palm, and he holds out a full-sized, clean paper towel. I take it, and he watches me wipe my face with the coarse paper.

“Thank you for saving me tonight.” I move aside to let him into the room.

Sel unsticks himself from the wall and walks inside. “Why are you thanking me for that?”

“Right. It’s not a choice. You’re obligated to save my life.” I don’t mean to let the hint of bitterness leak into my voice, but there it is.

Sel hears it just fine, of course. He pauses mid-stride, turns his head over his shoulder to inspect me for a moment. Keeps walking and I follow. His nose lifts and wrinkles as he nears the bathroom, catching the synthetic floral body wash scent still lingering in the air.

I ball up the paper towel in a pocket and watch him kneel to open the cabinets under the sink. “Between me and Nick, you’ve done a lot of that, I guess.”

He pushes aside bottles of bleach and glass cleaner. “Yes. That’s my—was my job.”

I lean against the doorjamb and watch him search for a kit. In the light of the bedroom, his eyes look sunken. “Your Kingsmage Oath,” I say. “How are—”

“I’m fine,” he says blithely. “Protecting you and William fulfills my Oath of Service, and that’s enough to keep me from succumbing to my blood.” He stands to set a small white first aid kit on the counter then opens the lid, lifting out supplies.

“Huh.”