"I'm no one's master," the words are hard, sharp, bitter, but 44 softens, breathes through her nose. Her hand runs down an arm scarred with defensive wounds...

No, not down it. Just above the skin, like she's used to touching something else.

Playfully, and yet, a little forced: "...But if you're offering to let me take care of you, those dangerous hands of yours do need cuffing. Just to be sure."