Sun Mote Copse A runaway once more

 Embry listened to her voice. It was so mellow and calm, sweet to his ears. The contrast between environments, so vast, was hard to absorb at such quick rates. He could still feel Jhala's icy glare biting at his pelt. Had he been that bad? How had things gone so wrong? Yet, when Feyre spoke again, his mood changed. Things had gone right, in a way. Technically, he was still the lucky guy that managed to catch this fae. 

     'You know. I think I can handle myself.' He grunted, a small grin etched upon his face. He didn't know who had granted him this wonderful new character, but he deeply thanked them for her. There simply was nothing better than that wry little spirit encompassing her, sifting through his own heart and forcing him into submission. Yet, just as it seemed the mood was lightening, she weakened. He heard her breathing crumble and felt himself move instinctively, erecting his form to preserve her strength. Her eyes left his, wavering, full of pain. He growled, cursing himself and Jhala. It did not make sense how Feyre had been the one to get the most lashings, out of all the bad souls he'd encountered (not excluding himself). 

     "Woah, there, Princess." He tried to remain, outwardly, calm; gentle as he moved to assist her frail body. He had no idea where she was injured, no doubt near the torso by the looks of it, but he tried to compensate anyway. The last time he'd called her Princess, he had been a stranger. What was he now? "Take it easy... I think you just need to rest before you go off 'handling' yourself, eh?" His sea-green gaze was playful. "Let's think about the future before we go and make it."