Isabella was so mad at herself.  She should be stronger than this—practically fainting at the sight of her father’s blood.  It was her one true flaw—she could not stand to see those she cared about hurt in any way.  It just made her heart stop.<br/><br/>As her father held her and soothed her, she leaned into him, so grateful he was not hurt too much to hold her.  He kept assuring her that he was fine.  Finally, though, he turned his attention to Diego and she flinched as he gave him a dressing down.  It was all her fault.  She was the one who went all teenage-hormoney.  He left with instructions for her to drink some tea, then went to get his wounds taken care of.  She felt like she had failed him when she was not able to take care of him herself.<br/><br/>Diego helped her to the couch, looking sheepish and embarrassed.  She reached her hand up and brushed his cheek.  “I’m so sorry, Diego.  Truly.”<br/><br/>She took the teacup, but her hands still trembled and she had to move very carefully.  She sipped the tea, which felt warm going down.  What was warmer still was Diego’s hand as he touched her face.  But when he suggested they cancel their date for the next day, she shivered.  She needed him now.  Didn’t he see that?  But she couldn’t argue that her father might need her.  And she did not want to beg Diego to keep their date if he did not think he should.  And, oh please don’t let it be, but what if he had felt so humiliated tonight that he wanted to separate himself from the possibility of it every happening again?  What if he decided he couldn’t see her and conduct business with her father at the same time? So she just mutely nodded and looked into her teacup.<br/><br/>“I guess I’d better see you to the door, then,” she said quietly.  She set her cup and saucer on the end table, then rose, waiting for him to go with her.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>