"If you'd stayed in the basement, this wouldn't have happened," she told him.
"And you'd be dead."
Her eyes watered. She didn't want to think about it, not when her hands were covered in the blood of her attacker-turned-savior. She did as he said and pressed hard on the arrow wound until the bleeding slowed.
The needle was smaller than she remembered needles being, and she steadied her breathing before plunging it into his arm.
"Still with me?" he asked.
"Barely," she said. "You still with me?"
"I'm not lucky enough to die," he said with a faint smile.
"Good," she said. She was embarrassed by her half-laugh, half-sob that escaped. "I don't feel as alone when I'm with you. It would be a shame to lose you already."
He opened his eyes. His gaze was fevered but steady. The sense that had told her where he was intensified within her, as if they were close enough for their souls to touch again. The sensation intrigued her after a lifetime of rejection and isolation.
"Not that I want you around," she added, not expecting her own words. She looked away and fumbled with the needle and thread she'd found in a sewing kit. "This might hurt."
Nervous, she stabbed him harder than she intended to, and Jule groaned, closing his eyes. By the time she'd made the second stitch, he was unconscious and she was sick to her stomach. She forced herself to sew the arrow wound the best she could then ran from the room, vomiting in the bathroom.