Anna stood near the column, one hand at her mouth. Her hair had come loose and her shoulders were shaking.
She didn’t meet his eyes.
He moved toward her, slowly, his voice low.
“I asked if you were hurt,” he said finally.
She shook her head. “No.”
He didn’t believe her.
There was blood at the corner of her lip. Her wrist was red.
“No,” her voice was barely audible.
He waited.
“Anna.”
“I said I am not hurt.”
He hesitated. “You are bleeding.”
She dabbed the corner of her lip with a trembling hand. “It is nothing.”
“You ought to sit.”
“I ought to go inside.”
Henry stared at her.
“I’m fine,” she added, quieter. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He took a slow step forward. “I did.”
She looked up, just barely. “No. You didn’t.”
“He put his hands on you.”
“I’ve had worse,” she said, and then flinched, maybe from the truth of it.
Henry’s throat worked. “You shouldn’t have to.”
She let out a breath. “That’s not your responsibility.”
He said nothing.
“I can take care of myself,” she added.
“If you could,” he said tightly, “you wouldn’t have been out here with a man like him.”
The words landed hard.
She looked at him now, full and sharp. “And whose fault is that?”
Henry didn’t answer.
Anna stepped forward, fury catching up to her grief.
