            His eyebrow rose at her language. "Does it matter?" He dragged his gaze back to her, his silver eyes dark with intention. "You say that my cuff misfired. That I was unconscious. And now there is a witch in my lap, no mangy dog panting over me, and I am, by some miracle, awake by that foul potion. No," he concluded, releasing one hip to brush back a curl from her temple, tucking it behind her ear. "It does not seem to matter why I let you almost kill me."