He wanted to protest that this was not something to be grateful for, that fate had a cruel streak in bringing her to him, but he couldn't. He was too distracted by the way she filled his senses, hair smelling of desert sunlight, her strong, slight form pressed against him in a way that suggested she could belong there. That she fit. He hated himself for thinking it, but had he not already given in? And hadn't she given every indication that he was not taking advantage?

But it was not pleasure that had pulled her to him, and he felt a dry tingling at the corners of his eyes as her breath stirred the hair of his beard.

"What he did to you... I did not teach him," he murmured. "What he did should be suffered by no one."

For a moment, he almost regretted not killing Ben that night, but the thought added to the nausea and he quelled it. Instead, he raised his real hand to brush against her hair, bound though it is. He leaned back to look down at her, and something made him smile, though his eyes remained sad.

"What a miracle you are," he murmured. "What can I teach someone who can stand up to that, and live to tell the tale?"