"Rylan! You’re hurt!” I gasp, my voice trembling as I rush toward him.
“It’s nothing,” he grunts, pulling his hand from my side, trying to dismiss my concern. “Just a scratch.”
“Just a scratch?” I echo, horrified. “You’re bleeding—a lot.”
“I said, I’m fine,” he insists, though the flicker of pain on his face betrays him. “We need to move. It’s my job to protect you, not the other way around.”
But I’m not listening. “You’re not going anywhere until I wrap that wound.” I glance at the other guards. “Does anyone have a wound kit? I’m a healer. Of sorts.”
None of them move.
Frustrated, I hiss and stomp over to the horses. “We are not leaving until his injury is bandaged. The faster one of you gets me a wound kit, the sooner we can get on the road before more bandits show up and I have to bandage up all four of you.”
Rylan growls softly, throwing a warning glance at the other guards.
Mathis looks at me, clearly torn between his duty and my insistence, but then he pulls a small pouch from his pack and hands it to me, avoiding Rylan’s glare.
“Sit down, you obstinate ass,” I mutter, pointing at the closest log. “You can’t protect anyone if you pass out from blood loss.”
Surprisingly, he obeys.
And watches me silently as I work, cutting away the blood drenched fabric clinging to his wound, and cleaning it as well as I can. I turn to the guards who are standing around, looks of concern on their faces. “I know at least one of you has a flask with some liquor in it. I need it to sterilise the needle and the wound.” No one moves. “Hand it over, Grellor,” I pin the surly guard with my most withering glare. He lets out a string of curses that would make the most hardened soldier blush, and pulls out a silver flask from his pocket to hand to me but not before taking one last swig from it.
“This is going to need a few stitches,” I say, pouring the alcohol over the needle before pressing a whiskey drenched rag against the wound, “and it’s going to hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
I lock eyes with him. Flecks of fiery amber orange surrounded by sparkling black diamond irises stare back at me. I’ve never seen eyes like his before. Without warning, I pierce his skin with the first stitch. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Impressive,” I grant him the rare nice word as I try towork fast. He might not be showing it, but having a dull needle threading through a flesh wound without any numbing agent can’t be fun for him.
“I’ve had worse. And, uh, you’re very gentle.”
I let out a snort. “I could knee you between the legs if you’d like to show off to me just how much pain you could tolerate.”
“Maybe later. Bandits, remember?” he says, voice lower, leaning in slightly, as if he’s imparting a secret to me and me alone. The slightest curve of his lips accompanies his words.
And for a second it’s like we’re behind the brush again, hiding from the bandits, just the two of us, his voice in my ear.
I tie off the end of the last stitch, and bandage it off. “How does that feel?” I stare at him as I ask, trusting his eyes more than his words.
He clears his throat. “Fine. Thank you.”
Finally, I pull my eyes from his and gently tug at the bandage, making sure it’s secure. “That should hold for now, but you need proper treatment. When we get… wherever we’re going.”
He nods, his face tight with pain now that he’s trying not to hide it. “We need to leave now,” he repeats, his tone firm. “Can you ride?”
“I’m not the one with a strip of gauze holding my guts inside my body.” He pushes up from the log and tries to help me onto the horse, but I swat his hands away. “You’ll pull a stitch, and I’m not putting either of us through that again.” I turn to Mathis, and he jumps down from his horse to lift me into the saddle, to Rylan’s obvious displeasure.
Mathis returns to his horse, the other two guards are already mounted, their faces grim. Rylan pulls himself up with a grunt only I can hear and settles into his saddle behind me. No one speaks as we set off into the night, the horses’ hooves thudding softly against the forest floor.
Rylan’s presence behind me looms, protective and vigilant, and if he’s leaning a little closer to me than usual, I’m sure it’s because of his injury. If it helps him, then I can only wish he would move closer. The silence between us, though, is heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts and relived memories. I wait for him to scold me for trying to escape, but he doesn’t. There’s a stillness to him as he sits pressed against me, a sense of control that’s unnerving after the violence I just witnessed. He doesn’t seem affected by what he’s done, by the bodies that we left littered on our abandoned campsite.
The memory of his lethal blade cutting down the bandits still lingers, a stark reminder of the deadly force of which he’s capable. My mind races, trying to process everything that’s happened. I’ve never seen anybody killed before, let alone a whole band of bandits. The flashbacks leave me feeling drained and vulnerable.
I’m wondering if those bodies will ever be claimed or if someone will forever be wondering where some of them have gone when Rylan’s voice finally cuts through the darkness, breaking the silence.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is deep and velvety in the night.
