You desperately want to argue and deny, but-- she hurt him, your moirail. In this, she betrayed you and his blood is welling up against your palm in irrefutable proof. And still you love her, need her, every part of you still aches for the wanting of her touch. "We'll see," you say, weakly. "But let's patch you up first." You get the bag down, resettle Jethro between your legs, stoke the base of his horn as reassuringly as you can. "Just let me know if you need a breather, what?"