I peel back his jacket, ripping it when it sticks to the blood-soaked fabric underneath.
He flinches, barely.
The wound’s bad—ugly gash along his ribs, still weeping red.
Could've killed him easy if it were an inch deeper.
I don't let my hands tremble.
I don't let my voice break.
I dip the cloth in the little flask of liquor we keep for emergencies and press it to the wound.
He sucks in a sharp breath.
"Go ahead," I mutter. "Yell if you want. Not like the kids haven’t heard worse."
He grunts something under his breath—maybe a curse, maybe a thank you, I can't tell.
I clean him up as best I can, working fast, working hard.
Because if I stop moving...
If I stop pretending like he's just another patient...
I’ll break.
And if I break, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to piece myself back together again.
"Why?" I whisper before I even realize the word's left my mouth.
Traz stiffens.
"Why’d you leave?" I ask, louder now, the dam starting to crack.
His eyes stay locked on mine, steady, stubborn.
"You wouldn't have been safe if I stayed," he says rough.
"Safe?" I spit, slamming the bloody cloth down onto the floor. "You think hiding under Petru’s thumb was safe? You think raising two half-blood kids in a goddamn death pit was safe?"
His jaw flexes.
"You think I didn’t want to stay?" he growls. "You think it didn't kill me to walk away?"
"You didn’t even say goodbye!" I shout, voice breaking.
The kids flinch in the corner, huddling closer together.
Guilt slices through me, but I can’t stop.
Not now.
"You didn’t give me a choice!" I cry, chest heaving. "You just—left. You disappeared. Like we didn’t matter."
"You did matter!" he roars back, fists clenching at his sides.
"Then why wasn’t I enough?" I choke out.
