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Her hand is so small in mine. I’m aware of it suddenly in a way that has nothing to do with the cuts I’m covering. The warmth of her skin, the soft yield of it under my thumb. I press the last bandage down and don’t let go for a beat longer than the job requires.

Get a grip, Komarov.

I go to my duffle bag and pull out the clean sweats and long-sleeve T-shirt I offered her last night, along with an unopened toothbrush. I set them on the vanity, and I unlock the handcuff.

She looks at her free wrist. Then at me.

“Go,” I say, not unkindly, giving a small nod toward the open door.

She goes.

As I listen to the shower run, I push the beds back to where they were and sit on the edge of mine, my mind racing in directions a professional killer’s mind should never go.

The shower stops. There’s a pause, and then the door opens.

She’s wearing my sweats, which are absurdly big on her, the waistband folded over twice and the legs pooling around her feet. Her damp hair hangs in limp strands around her face, and she smells cleanly of soap. Her injured wrist is cradled against her chest, and she’s looking at me with careful, assessing eyes.

She looks so painfully vulnerable. Clean, exhausted, and small, standing in my oversized clothes with her bruised cheek and her broken wrist. I have the sudden, crystalline thought that I wish I hadn’t already killed the men responsible for putting those marks on her. I’d like to have a second go at it, and this time drag it out for days.

“Better?” I say.

She considers this seriously, and a touch of surprise flickers in her eyes as she nods.

I almost smile.

“Good,” I say. “Sit down. Let me look at that wrist. Then I’ll get you that coffee.”

She sits on the edge of the bed opposite me, her broken wrist cradled in her lap.

I hesitate, looking at my sweats dangling over her toes.

I pat my thigh. “Up. Put your feet up here. I’m not having you tripping.”

“What?”

She’s completely thrown by the gesture, like no one has ever shown her basic consideration before.

I lean down, scoop her feet into my lap, and roll up the cuffs. “There. Isn’t that better?”

I give her foot a gentle squeeze before setting her feet back on the floor.

“Now that wrist of yours. Let me see.” I take it carefully in my hands and inspect it properly.

It’s bad. Worse than I’d registered while we were sitting on the bathroom floor. The swelling has distorted the shape of the joint entirely, the skin stretched tight and mottled purple-yellow across the back of her hand and up toward her forearm. She’s been suffering like this in silence. Pushing me, fighting me, holding herself so rigidly against her misery.

Very carefully, I trace along the bone with my fingertips.

She makes a small sound, but she doesn’t pull away. The trust between us is fragile as glass.

“It’s broken,” I say. “You need an emergency room. The bone needs to be set properly and put in a cast.”

The sooner she’s x-rayed and examined, the sooner she’ll stop suffering.

“Your family will take you when I get you home.” I keep my voice neutral, though the word family burns sourly in my mouth.

I stare at her wrist, still held gently in my hands.

I feel like a piece of shit.