They sat together on the velvet sofa, the air between them heavy.
Mathias produced two crystal glasses and a bottle of dark wine, settling beside her with a weary grace.
Before he could pour, Olivia turned to him, her gaze as steady as a predator's.
"Before we drink," she began, "give me your hand."
He paused, the bottle hovering mid-air. His brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. "What?"
"Your hand is injured and requires tending. Give it to me."
He stared at her, his face etched with a rare, naked disbelief. "You... you wish to treat me?"
Olivia's expression shifted to one of mild, clinical annoyance.
"Yes, I do. Do you see anyone else in this room capable of the task?"
Without waiting for his consent, she reached out and took his hand, pulling it toward her. She retrieved a kit of medicinal supplies, her movements precise and practiced.
She applied a cooling ointment to the raw burns, then began to wind the bandages with careful, rhythmic wraps.
