There was no real harshness in his tone—just quiet reproach.
He crouched in front of her and reached toward her ankle.
Instinctively, she pulled her foot back.
His hand stilled.
“Do you not want me touching you?” he asked evenly.
In the dim lamplight, his expression was difficult to read.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear to avoid his gaze.
“It’s not that,” she replied quietly. “Olivia’s downstairs. You should go keep her company. Just leave the liniment here. I can take care of it.”
He watched her for a moment longer.
Then, without warning, he caught her ankle and drew it firmly into his lap.
The sudden movement made her wince.
“Nathanie—” she protested, but the pain forced the rest of her words into a soft cry.
He paused when he saw the full extent of the swelling.
The faint irritation that had lingered on his face disappeared, replaced by something rarer.
Regret.
“…Sorry,” he said under his breath.
The word stunned her.
In three years, she could not remember hearing him apologize like that.
Not when he had once left her doubled over in pain with a ruptured appendix because he had to attend a medical summit.