And now I’m suddenly furious with her.
She wanted me to leave. She was going to try and deal with this alone. She would have died alone. She’s so damn stubborn that she would choose to fight me until she collapsed rather than let me see her injured.
The image of her crumpling to the ground sends a chill through me, icing over my burning rage. You would think I’d be numb to witnessing hurt by now, watching Death claim another victim. But when she crumpled, something inside of me cracked. The sight of her so weak, so vulnerable, so unlike herself, was enough to shatter a piece of the soul I’d forgotten I had.
My feet stumble over something in the darkness.
Finally.
I bend down to snatch up the canteen only for my fingers to fold around a small, tin box. I step closer to the firelight, casting a glance over my shoulder at the wheezing Paedyn.
I don’t have time for this.
I’m about to chuck the box as far as I can out of fury and frustration when the symbol painted onto the lid catches in the light, catching my attention. A faded, green diamond stains the top, and I don’t hesitate before ripping open the lid to reveal a small vile of inky liquid.
I stare at it. Stare at the miracle in the form of a healing salve crafted by the Healers themselves, strong enough to mend even the most menacing wounds.
And then I’m laughing dryly, unable to stop. The absurdity, the sheer impossibility of this all has me hysterical. Braxton must have picked it up in the forest somewhere and dropped it during our fight.
Paedyn’s salvation has been hiding in the shadows this whole time.
“Thank the Plague,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief as my foot finally meets one of my canteens on the ground.
I’m on my knees beside her in a matter of moments, her chest barely rising with shallow breaths. I yank the salve from the box, revealing a needle and thick thread for stitching wounds lying beneath. I find myself laughing again.
Unbelievable. Bloody unbelievable.
I carefully pour some of the dark liquid onto a clean corner of my remaining shirt. This is going to sting, so it’s convenient that she’s unconscious when I press the cloth against her wound, letting the salve seep into the gash. Slowly, I make my way across the cut, watching as the steady flow of blood already begins to slow. I dab the fabric against a particularly deep part of the gash and her eyes fly open before her hand flies towards my face.
Damn.
Her slap is shockingly hard for someone who was just dangerously close to meeting Death. My head is still turned to the side from the shock and impact of her hit, but a slow smile pulls up my lips.
“Ouch.” I finally look at her, finding wild blue eyes staring up at me. She’s panting, clearly confused. “Is that how you thank me for saving your life?” I scan her face, relieved to already see some color blooming on her cheeks, see her eyes gleaming again with that familiar fire.
“I’m the one who should be saying ouch. What the hell is that? It stings.” She’s breathless and shaking all over. Her eyes dart from her clean wound to the salve still clutched in my hand. And then she’s trying to sit up. It’s a good effort, despite her grunting in pain.
“Easy, darling.” I place a hand on her uninjured side, fitting right into the curve of her waist as I slowly press her back down to the forest floor. “You can slap me all you want once you’re healed, but until then, try to keep your hands to yourself.”
“How am I alive?” Her voice is so quiet that her question is nearly drowned out by the chirping crickets surrounding us. Her eyes are trained on the sky, not daring to look at me.
“We have Braxton to thank for that.” I grab the water canteen and push it to her lips. “Drink. You’re dehydrated. Though you are quite fun when you’re delusional.” She glares at me as I tip the canteen back, letting her gulp down the water greedily. She eyes me expectantly, and I sigh, elaborating, “Braxton paid me a little visit earlier, and he must have dropped the salve he’d found during our fight.” I sigh. “And I doubt he’s too happy about that, seeing that he could have used it for himself.”
She pushes my hand away, refusing to drink any more until she gets some answers.
Stubborn, little thing.
“So you didn’t—” Her eyes glance between my bandaged injury to my face, trying to read me.
“No, I didn’t kill him,” I say dully, answering the question in her gaze. She gives me a strange look, one I’ve only seen her offer me a few times before. I clear my throat and look away, leaning back on my palms as she continues to study me. “Killing isn’t a hobby of mine, I’ll have you know.”
I felt like I needed to say it. Felt like I needed to admit that to her, to myself. What I do—what I’ve done—has had a purpose, a reason. I’m still a monster, just not the kind that loves the hateful things they do.
There’s that look again. It’s like she’s seeing straight through my many masks, tearing down my walls, stripping me bear with nothing but her gaze. I hate it—I love it. I feel free—I feel trapped. The thought that a single pair of blue eyes can leave me so vulnerable, so exposed, is alarming.
So, I do what it is I do best—deflect.
I clear my throat before leaning forward and grabbing my ragged shirt. After dumping the rest of the salve onto the fabric, I gently press it to her wound. She hisses and her eyes fly to mine, full of a fire that makes me chuckle. “Oh, this isn’t even the worst part, darling. I still have to stitch you up.”
She steadies her shaky breaths, long lashes fluttering shut as she says, “Why are you doing this?”
A very valid question, though I don’t intend on answering it until I get some answers of my own. I grab the brutally blunt needle and begin the painstaking process of threading it through with the thick medical string. “Why don’t I ask the questions?” My stare is leveled at her, unyielding and unfeeling. But it’s simply another mask, seeing that I’m currently simmering with rage.
“Which one of them did this to you?” Her eyes fly open, looking more confused and unsure of herself than I’ve ever seen before. But she recovers quickly, huffing out a shaky laugh.
She turns her head to the side to look at me from where she lays on a bed of moss, dirt, and leaves. “It doesn’t matter.” And that is the only answer she deems to give me before rolling her head back towards the starry sky hanging above us, avoiding my gaze.
My fingers find her chin and then I’m tugging her face back in my direction so I can look her in the eyes as I say, “I’m going to ask again. Who did this to you?”
My hand is still gripping her chin, her strong jaw, as she holds my gaze and says, “Why do you care?” Then she’s laughing bitterly, the sound vibrating under my fingers.
“Because I don’t tolerate my toys being played with.”
She is going to hate that.
“Your what—？” She stops, her eyes smoldering, her temper rising. “Is that what you think I am? Some toy you can play with?”
“Yes. And clearly quite a fragile one at that.”
Plagues, if I wasn’t already going to hell, I am now.
She sputters. Actually sputters. I’ve never seen her at such a loss for words before, and I must say, it’s very entertaining. “What the hell is wrong with you? Oh, so you think I’m fragile? I’ll show you just how fragile I—”