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“I’d need a proper reason for that. You’ve got to communicate, even when you’re mad. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know what’s wrong?” “Forget it.” He pulls another arrow, rolling the tip between his fingers. “Not if you’re still mad about it.” He tilts his head, frowning a bit. “Why does that matter to you? Whether I’m mad or not.” “Why wouldn’t it? I want to take care of you.” “I can take care of myself.” “I know you can, but I want to be there anyway. Like right now.” I grab his arm, the chill of his skin jolting against my hand. “You’re not taking care of yourself by standing in the rain shooting arrows. Your body is mine, so you don’t get to be reckless with it. Are we clear?” He swallows hard, his turbulent eyes wavering and flickering. They’re so lost and disturbed it makes me want to kill whoever put that look there—even if it’s me. His lips are bluish, and I notice a small cut at the edge of his archery glove. I gently remove it, inspecting the wound. It’s shallow, but the s