That so much time has passed for her inside escapes his realization. For a moment, he considers. Truthfully, he wants to hold this conversation after she's freed from the Horizon's grasp when he can actually see her (and touch her)—but he doesn't wish to greet her words with silence, either.

He folds his feelings away. They're too distracting while he's in unchartered territory. And he dislikes the sense that he's navigating sinkholes he can't see. Particularly his own.

I know.
We'll talk after.

When isn't he putting himself in harm's way? If he escapes this decision unscathed, he'll hang up his swords and start fucking knitting. His plan relies on bearing the brunt of the Free Cities' ire should they come sniffing. He'd prefer to be turned over and face the questioning than hinge on a squirrely merchant to fend off city guards. The man's intentions, Geralt trusts—life debts and gold are worthwhile currency—but his fortitude is a different matter. He would not expect some back alley trader to take the fall for him, nor would he ask that. Simpler to allow the inevitable.

Besides, Geralt knows only one thing, and that's to look after his people. There's no reality in which he'd have sat on his hands miles away, with no answer from her for days and nothing but a few words on a scrap of parchment. It's just not who he is.