Divine Rivals (Letters of Enchantment, #1)(76)

There were multiple beds, each partitioned off by cloth walls for meager privacy. Iris’s eyes found him instantly.

Roman was in the first bay, lying on a narrow cot. He was sleeping, his mouth slack and his chest rising and falling slowly, as if he were in the throes of a deep dream. He looked so thin in a hospital gown. He looked so pale in the lamplight. He looked like the slightest thing might break him.

She took a step closer, uncertain if she was supposed to be in there. But a nurse nodded at her, and Iris tentatively continued her path to Roman’s bedside. His injured leg was swathed in linens, propped up on a spare pillow, and intravenous fluids were being fed into a vein in his right hand.

She stopped, gazing down at him. He had taken multiple wounds for her. He had put himself in harm’s way to keep her safe, and she wondered if she would be standing here in this moment with minor scrapes without him or if she would be shredded by shrapnel, dead in the shadows of a trench. If he hadn’t come with her … if he hadn’t been so stubborn, so insistent that he follow her …

She couldn’t breathe, and she dared to reach out and trace his hand, the nicks and cuts on his knuckles.

Why did you come here, Kitt?

She returned her gaze to his face, half expecting to find his eyes open and his mouth upturned in a cocky smile. As if he felt the same dangerous spark she did when their skin touched. But Roman continued to sleep, lost to her in the moment.

She swallowed.

Why did you take the wounds that should have been mine?

Her fingertips traced up his arm, across his collar and the slope of his jaw to the thick shock of his hair. She brushed away a lock from his brow, daring him to wake up to her caress.

He didn’t, of course.

She was partly relieved, partly disappointed. She was still rife with worry over him, and she felt as if the ice in her stomach wouldn’t fully melt until she spoke with him. Until she heard his voice again and felt his gaze on her.

“We removed twelve pieces of shrapnel from his leg,” the nurse said quietly. “He’s very fortunate it was only his leg, and all of his arteries were missed.”

Iris’s hand dropped from Roman’s dark hair. She glanced over her shoulder to see the nurse standing at the foot of his bed.

“Yes. I was with him when it happened,” Iris whispered, beginning to back away. She could see Attie at the corner of her eye, waiting in the doorway.

“Then he must be here because of you,” the nurse said, moving closer to take his pulse. “I’m sure he’ll want to see and personally thank you tomorrow.”

“No,” Iris said. “I’m here because of him.” And that was all the lump in her throat would allow her to say.

She turned and left the room, her breaths turning shallow and quick, and she thought she might faint in the corridor until she glanced up and saw someone striding toward her with purpose. Long black hair was escaping a braid. Blood was splattered on her skirts and fire shone in her brown eyes.

Marisol.

“There you are!” Marisol cried, and Iris worried she was in trouble until she realized that that Marisol was crying. Tears shone on her cheeks. “My gods, I have been praying every day for you!”

One moment, Iris was standing uncertain, trembling in the hall. The next, Marisol had embraced her, weeping into her matted hair. Iris sighed—she was safe, she was safe, she could let down her guard and breathe—and she held to Marisol, struggling to hide the tears that surged.

She didn’t think she could cry anymore, but when Marisol leaned back and framed her face, Iris let her tears fall.

“When’s the last time you ate, Iris?” Marisol asked, tenderly wiping her tears away. “Come, I’m taking you home and feeding you. And then you can take a shower and rest.”

She reached for Attie’s hand, holding both girls close.

Marisol led them home.



* * *



Iris wanted a shower first.

While Marisol and Attie prepared hot cocoa and a late-night meal in the kitchen, Iris trudged upstairs to the lavatory. The adrenaline that had kept her going since that afternoon—a day that felt like years ago, a day when the sky was blue and the storm clouds were building and the trenches were full of heavy silence and the Sycamore Platoon was alive—was utterly gone. She could suddenly feel the keen edge of her exhaustion.

She carried a candle into her bedroom. She dropped the bags from her back to the floor, where they lay like two heaps on the rug. She stripped, shivering as the bloodstained linen peeled off her skin.

A quick shower, Marisol had told her. Because it was the middle of the night, and they must always be ready for the hounds to come.

Iris washed by candlelight. It was dark and warm, the steam curling up from the tiles, and she stood in the shower, her eyes closed and her skin burning as she scrubbed. She scrubbed as if she could wash it all away.

Her ears still held a faint ring; she wondered if it would ever fade.

She knocked something off the soap ledge. The clang made her jump, her heart faltering. She almost cowered, but slowly told herself she was fine. She was in the shower, and it was just a metal tin of Marisol’s lavender shampoo.

When Iris was certain she had washed away the dirt and the sweat and the blood, she shut off the valve and dried herself. She didn’t even want to look at her body, the marks on her skin. Bruises and cuts to remind her what she had experienced.