I blink and allow his words to sink into my being. He hadn’t killed me. Instead, he prevented my attacker from shaking the life out of me.
He pulls the cloth back. “You need stitches.”
I nod numbly as he steps back to his shelf and rummages around until he finds the necessary items. He joins me on the mattress, pours wine on a cloth, and touches it to the wound. Pain sears my skin anew, but I don’t move. Don’t protest.
When I was fourteen, I had a hook rip through my arm. Hattie, one of the women at the brothel, had stitched the wound. I remember the way she spoke, how she warned beforehand how badly it would hurt.
The warrior offers no such words. Instead, he pinches the cut together and pierces my skin. I inhale at the agony as he continues weaving the thread in and out. He finishes after he places six stitches into my torn flesh.
“Do you have salve?” When I fail to answer, he pulls the satchel at my waist, widening the material enough to glance inside. He pulls free a tiny, amber-colored bottle, pulls the lid, and sniffs. “Is this salve?”
I blink, but all I see is the man with the bone necklace entering my tent. All I hear is him smacking me and sending me to the ground.
“Kyanite.”
The sound keeps coming. Hand against flesh. Over and over again, he smacks me, and I fall into an endless drop.
Gabriel gathers a small amount against his index finger and rubs it against his hand. Torchlight throws shadows across his stern brow as he raises his arm and stares at the ointment.
“It doesn’t sting. It must be salve.” With his thumb, he lifts my chin and rubs the cream onto my cheek.
I wince against the throbbing, the memory, the horror. I was sure the huge man was going to kill me.
Gabriel gains his feet and moves to the washing stand, where he cleans his hands. He dries them as he turns to face me.
“You’ll stay here tonight.” He crosses the tent, picks up a blanket from the shelf, and sets it beside me. “Here.”
I grab the soft material and clutch it to my chest.
He reaches for my kyanite necklace, and I cringe, expecting him to rip it from my neck. Instead, he tucks it into my surcoat. “Keep this out of sight.”
Softness bends beneath my fingers as I clutch the blanket even tighter.
“You’re in shock,” he says in that same empathic voice from earlier.
I tuck my chin against the blanket. It’s my shield. My protection. My solace from the shadows gathering outside this room.
Gently, he brushes his fingers against my jaw. “You’re safe.”
I allow that contact, that tenderness, that comfort, even though the one offering the comfort is Bloodstone.
He picks up another blanket from the shelf and moves to the opposite side of the tent, where he sits. “You don’t belong here. When the council asks tomorrow, tell them you must go home.”
I shift to lie on my side and keep that blanket tucked close.
Help me, Mother. Give me strength. Pull me away from this darkness. This fog. Please, oh, please help me, Mother.
Silence answers my pleas. Such bone-aching silence.
Mother isn’t here. Not listening. She’s never been so distant before, never so far out of reach. It’s as if my being here with these Bloodstone people took her even further from me. Further than death. Further than the ravine between us.
I inhale and exhale, desperately searching for my calm. It’s out there somewhere. I know it is. I just need to find it.
Maybe then, I’ll remember my reason for staying.
ChapterEight
“Sol, wake up.”
