“You need those treated. Stay here.” With that, I leave the room, remembering the medical kit I keep under my bed. I’d use it daily when training my martial arts with Isaiah and Isaac, holding my ability back to strengthen my body and skill.

I head to my room across the hall and quickly pull out the small bag. It wasn’t fully stocked anymore, but I would have what I needed to treat his few cuts.

I head back to the Autarium room, Cole still standing in the same place I left him. His brows creased as he stared toward the window, the sun a little higher in the sky.

He turns his gaze toward me as I enter the room and sit down on a small table in the corner. I gesture for him to come over as I unpack the small cloths and disinfectant.

I look up, watching as he hesitates, his head tilted toward the door. Was he planning on running? Was he that stubborn?

A small grin spreads on my lips as a thought hits me.

“I get it.” I nod, hiding my smile.

“Not all men can handle swabs and antiseptic wipes. Too hard on their delicate hands.” My brow raises in challenge as he rolls his eyes, a brief tilt to his lips before he schools it. With a lighter look in his dark eyes as he makes his way over to me.

He sits opposite me, the old chair creaking as it holds his large frame. I place my hand out on the table, waiting for his arm. He flickers his gaze between my face and open hand before sighing and placing his hand on the small table beside me.

A small chuckle leaves my lips. He really didn’t want to get treated. Was that just him being stubborn? It seemed silly and a little reckless. At a time when we have to be alert and at our best, he was running himself ragged, pushing himself, and not taking care of the things he should do first. He would be of no help in a fight if he’s exhausted and at a higher risk of making a mistake with an unclear mind and his senses, not at their best.

“You should get some rest after this. I’m presuming you haven’t taken much of a break since you came?” I glance at him through my lashes, still holding his hand as I tend to his cuts.

“Don’t need it,” he replies, his words short and terse.

“But you should—“

His hand sways as he shakes his head, cutting me off, “No.” The small word firm and final.

I grit my teeth, tired of his short answers and stubbornness.

I grip his hand tighter, dabbing the antiseptic wipe I’m holding a little harder on his cut. He winces. Good.

“You’ll be of no use to anyone if you don’t get some rest.” I cut him a glare. “If we get attacked, and you’re not at your best, more people could get hurt.” He flinches at my words, his brows creased, and his lips pinched into a flat line. My voice is firm and resolute as I continue.