Dexmon's jaw flexed harder, clocking the dark stain spreading through the thermal weave fabric on her leg, confirming what Gavriel had described.
He reached for the thermal weave at her waist to peel the rest of it off.
Then his hands stopped because his brain caught up to remind him that there was another man sitting six feet away.
He looked at Gavriel.
Gavriel looked at him.
Then Gavriel's nostrils flared. The flare was small, involuntary, the reflex of a wolf whose body was responding to stimuli while his brain was furiously telling it to shut the fuck up, because this was a live grenade wrapped in a minefield wearing a 'nothing to see here' hat.
Every instinct in his body was screaming to stay. She was hurt. She was unconscious. She might need him. His magic was still reaching for hers through a matebond Dexmon couldn't see, his green magic was refilling her reserves.
