“I could fight my way down anytime,” Medusa declared.

Tom laughed. “Not before you get snowed!”

She twisted in his arms, and Tom ducked his head to avoid the hands she swiped at his face, trying to gouge his eyes. Medusa kicked at his torso and unbalanced him, sending Tom tumbling back, but he made sure they both plunged into a bank of slushy snow. He didn’t even feel the chill with her searing up against him, and she punched his face, knocking him to his elbows and knees.

Medusa maneuvered herself firmly on top of him and stuffed a fistful of icy snow down the back of his tunic. Tom shook her off and tried to recapture her before she flitted away from him, but she was too swift and darted out of his reach.

He heaved himself to his feet and shook out his tunic, laughing. She grinned at him savagely from across the leaping flames.

“My ploy worked,” Tom told her. “You like that fire now.”

She cocked her head. “Your fire’s at my mercy. I could put it out and ditch the sim.”

Tom sobered up. “I don’t care about the fire. Don’t go.”

Medusa said nothing. The flames glittered in her black eyes. Their skirmish had tousled her hair, and he could see the scarring she tended to hide under locks of dark hair from the side of her head where she had most of it. His gaze traced over it, and Medusa seemed to realize what he was looking at. She turned her head away.

“No, wait,” Tom said, circling to her side of the fire. “You don’t have to . . . I mean, I thought you don’t care if . . .”

“I don’t.”

He stood there a moment, dismayed, uncertain what to do. Then he reached out for her, and she flinched back.

“What, you said you don’t care,” Tom pointed out. “Either you care or you don’t care what I’m seeing.”

“I’ve had this since I was very young, Tom.” Her voice was acidic. “I am used to it. So, no, I don’t care anymore.”

“So why are you upset when I—”

“It’s different with you.”

The implication slammed him: he’d done this. He had to fix it.

This time, he took her gently by the shoulder before she could pull back. When he lifted his palm to brush the dark strands of her hair aside, her hand flew to the sword in his scabbard. Tom let her draw it if she wanted to. Soon, he could see her face, that mass of burn scar tissue twisting its way from her scalp, down her features.