In the shower, he hissed as the water hit the wounds, then just braced his hands on the tile wall, and let those wounds run clean.

Once he’d washed, let the water beat most of the aches away, he got out of the shower, examined the wounds again, and laid the salve on thick. Immediately the raw edge of pain eased. He bandaged it as best he could, dressed, then went to face the music.

* * *

Sasha wept in the shower. The jag increased the headache, but she felt steadier purged of tears. She ran the water as hot as she could bear until it no longer felt as if spiders crawled over her skin. She scrubbed that skin, ignoring the pain when she hit cuts and scrapes, washed her hair. Scrubbed again, washed again.

And finally felt clean.

After wrapping herself in a towel, she wiped the mirror clear of fog, studied her face, traced the bruising at her neck.

She’d been weak, she thought, and couldn’t, wouldn’t be weak again. If she continued this—and she knew she would—she had to be smarter, stronger, more prepared. She wouldn’t cower back a second time while some demon goddess from hell tried to take her over.

She wouldn’t be used again or deceived again.

“People underestimate you because you underestimate yourself,” she told her reflection. “That stops now.”

She walked out of the bath, then stopped when she saw Bran at her open terrace doors, looking out.

“I need you to leave.”

He turned back, studied her as she stood, hair sleek and wet, her hand clutching the towel between her breasts. And insult and anger in her eyes.

“I have a salve.” He held up the small jar. “I can help with the wounds, and with the pain.”

“I don’t want—”

“Stop being a git. You’re not a stupid woman. You want to be pissed, be pissed,” he invited as his own temper clawed at him. “Stay pissed after I explain, that’s your choice to make, but now you’ll sit down and let me help.”

“You’re not in charge of me.”

“And thank the gods for that. But we’re all in this together, and I’ll do what I can to help the others in turn. But you took the brunt of it. Now sit down, and be pissed and smart.”

Refusing, she realized, was weak, was letting her hurt and disappointment cloud judgment. She needed to be strong and well to fight.

So she sat on the side of the bed.

He came over, set the salve down. And laid his hands gently on her head.

“That’s not—”

“Your head aches, that’s clear to see. She tried getting into your mind, didn’t she? And you’ve been crying. So your head hurts.” He brushed his thumbs over her temples, her forehead. “I’m not as good at this as others, but with you being an empath—”

“I’m not.”

“For Christ’s sake, woman, don’t argue with what I know.” Impatience snapped, a whiplash. “You block most out, but it’s there. Use it now, in a kind of reverse, and that will help me help you. Let me feel it, open up and let me feel. We’ll start with the headache, as you’ll think clearer then.”