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Translation, he wanted to have sex with her again. And maybe get back together.

“You’ve had enough, Bryan,” Amber said. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

She turned to walk away, but Bryan caught her by the elbow. “Just one freaking drink, babe. Please.”

There was no use trying to reason with him when he was like this. She already saw violence starting to rise in the depths of his eyes. Amber yanked her elbow from his grasp.

“I said no.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. She pushed him, sending him flying into the crowd. Some people caught him, and the whole bar stood still and looked at her. Most of them were men, and what most of them saw was an altercation. That a woman had attacked a man. They hadn’t seen that he’d started it, that it was self-defense. They also hadn’t been in the bedroom with him, where his touch left bruises on her breasts and her shoulders, where his bites left traces.

That push showed him she’d never let him be rough with her again.

But all they saw was that she was violent against him.

And a couple of hours later, she’d pay for it.

Would she eventually pay for being open and vulnerable with Owen, too? She had to be careful. She had to remind herself that trusting someone—especially a man or a system run by men—was stupid. She could only rely on herself. She’d learned that the hard way.

She was tired of being a doormat for men. For once in her life, she wanted a man to value her, to appreciate her.

As she looked into Owen’s green eyes, she prayed she wasn’t being foolish now. That she could trust him like she trusted herself.

A careful voice at the back of her mind warned her she hadn’t known him for long, and that he hadn’t had anything else to do other than care for her. What they’d been though together might not mean anything. But mesmerized by his proximity, by the orange fire playing in his one eye that wasn’t shut, she brushed that voice away.

“What happened?” she repeated the question, coming back to her senses.

“As ye see, lass, the English and I talked.”

She couldn’t resist it. She reached out and cupped his jaw, willing to make the bruise on his cheekbone go away. His eye widened for a split second in surprise, then he held his breath and leaned into her palm. His skin was warm, and the bristle on his jaw rough. How would it feel to have him brush against her inner thigh with it?

“Your turn for some salve now,” she said, clutching the cloak around her shoulders with one hand. “I’ll put it on your neck.”

He chuckled, but a grimace of pain distorted his face. “I can do it myself. Although I would prefer for ye to do it.”

“Then let me.”

Amber asked him to look away and quickly put on the undertunic. When she was decent, she sank to her knees in front of him, itching to put her hands on his thighs and feel the steel of his warm muscles. She took out the clay box with the salve and opened it. The aromatic herbal cream melted against her fingers. She put a good heap on Owen’s burn and gently spread it around. He hissed under his breath, his fingers clenching around the bench until his knuckles whitened. Amber took out a fresh cloth and tied it around his neck.

“Is it okay like this?” she asked. “Not too tight?”

“’Tis all right.”

“Let me put some on your face.”

She scooped more of the salve and spread it against the swollen bruise on his cheekbone. His intense gaze left pleasant tingles on her skin.

“Yer touch makes the pain go away,” he said.

Amber’s hand lingered on his hot skin. The world stood still and time froze. She was lost in the green depths of his eye, in the golden glow of his skin, in his masculine, musky scent.

“I highly doubt that,” she said, her voice coarse.

“Aye, ye have a magic touch, lass. Is yer kiss magical, too?”

A kiss. Amber’s breath caught in her throat, and her stomach did cartwheels. She imagined his lips on her. Would he be demanding or gentle? Would he taste as masculine as he smelled?

Her whole body melted like that salve on her fingers.