The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(8)

“You’re still young,” Kiva returned. “Give it time.”

Tipp snorted, thinking she was joking. Kiva didn’t enlighten him. While she hoped Tipp would stay as sweet and caring as he now was, the odds were against him. The only man whom Kiva had ever held any respect for was her beloved father. But . . . he was one of a kind.

Not allowing the nostalgia to overwhelm her this time, Kiva quickly and efficiently finished sealing the rest of the cuts on the young man’s abdomen and back, double checking that there were none on his legs before moving to his face.

It was then, just as she lowered her bone needle toward his brow, that his eyes opened.





Chapter Four


Kiva staggered backwards as the young man sat bolt upright. She wasn’t sure which of them was more startled—her, him, Tipp, or the guard.

“What the—” the man started, his gaze moving frantically around the room. “Who— Where—”

“Easy,” Kiva said, raising her hands. His eyes homed in on the bone needle before noting the blood staining her arms—his blood. The next second, he scrambled off the other side of the metal bench and was backing away like a cornered animal.

Aware that Naari was approaching fast, Kiva spoke again, trying to calm the man before things could escalate. “You’re at Zalindov. You were hurt on the way here. I’ve been”—she motioned helplessly to her bloodied hands—“stitching you back together.”

It was then that the man’s gaze settled on the guard. His eyes were blue, Kiva noted, but there was a gold rim in the center around the pupil. Striking eyes, unlike any she’d seen before.

Striking eyes, in a striking face. There was no denying it now that he was awake. And yet, her words to Tipp remained true: she would not be swooning anytime soon.

Upon seeing the fully armed guard, something in the man seemed to wilt, as if he were finally catching up, realizing where he was and perhaps recalling why. He stopped backing away—not that there was anywhere else for him to go, since he was now pressed up against the workbench—and he pivoted from Naari to take in the wide-eyed Tipp, who stood frozen with his mouth hanging open. The man peered down at his own body, noting his lack of clothes and the dressings on his wounds, including the fresh wrappings on his hand. He then, finally, turned back to Kiva, seeming to come to a decision.

“Forgive me,” he said in a calm, smooth voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Kiva blinked. Then blinked again.

“Er, that’s all right,” she replied, feeling unbalanced. He had woken up to her hovering above him with a bloodied needle, after all. It was she who had startled him. “You should sit down again. Let me finish with the cut on your head.”

He touched his brow, wincing when he found the bump, his fingers coming away red with blood. Kiva bit her cheek to keep from scolding him. She’d have to clean it again now, before adding the sutures.

The young man’s face paled, as if his sudden exertion had caught up to him, shock setting in. Kiva lunged forward, as did Tipp, the two of them arriving just in time to grab the new prisoner as his knees buckled.

“Don’t w-w-worry,” Tipp said, barely reaching the young man’s chest but still taking on a good amount of his weight. “We’ve g-got you.”

Kiva, meanwhile, was just trying to get ahold of him without stabbing him with her needle. She’d already done enough damage to his flesh today.

“Sorry,” the man said, his voice thinner than a moment ago. “I don’t—I don’t feel so great.” And then he groaned softly.

“Tipp,” Kiva barked, his name a command.

The boy knew what the groan meant as well as Kiva, and he rushed away, causing her to grunt quietly as she took the young man’s full weight. She managed to drag him the few remaining steps to the metal bench and forced him to sit just in time for Tipp to run back with an empty pail in his hands. Kiva shoved it into place just as the man groaned again, leaned forward, and vomited.

“That was c-close,” Tipp said with a grin.

Kiva didn’t reply. She just tightened her grip on the pail as the man continued retching.

She wasn’t surprised. Head injuries were notorious for prompting nausea. Until she could treat his wound and get some poppymilk into him, he was going to feel awful. If only he could have remained unconscious for a few more minutes, then at least he wouldn’t have to suffer through the last of her ministrations.

When finally it seemed like there was nothing left in him, Kiva helped him lie back down, handing the pail to Tipp, who was quick to disappear out the door with it.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, his voice even weaker than before, his face now alarmingly pale.

“Stop apologizing,” Kiva told him, before checking herself. He could apologize or not, that was his prerogative. What he said and did was none of her business.

Kiva spared a glance at Naari, finding the guard halfway between the door and the man, as if she didn’t know whether he was a threat or not. Given that he couldn’t even sit upright at the moment, Kiva wasn’t concerned, and the look she sent Naari communicated as much. The guard didn’t back away, but her shoulders lost some of their tension.

“I’ll be quick with this, then give you something for the pain,” Kiva said. “After that, you can get out of here.”