Wraith and his group halt their activities altogether to watch us leave the room. Arnold stands beside him and levels me witha scathing look. He looks at me like I’m the weakest excuse for a cadet he’s seen.
I fluster at the negative attention we’re drawing. “My hand is hurt, not my legs, Cameron.” I try to struggle out of his arms, but he only grips me tighter. His brows are firmly pinched together and his focus is on the infirmary door. There’s no arguing with him.
It’s a self-service infirmary. Which is concerning, but those are the rules down here. The medics lent to the Dark Forces only help in cases like Damian’s teeth where they can implement new tech and test it out on us. Small injuries are left to us. Those who are too close to death are left to die. There’s not much in between.
Cameron sets me down on the table and rummages through the cupboards until he finds bandages and ointment.
“Lift your wrist,” he says softly. I grimace as I raise my arm, pain flashes across my hand. The skin is red and some of my knuckles are bleeding. The swelling hasn’t started yet, but I know it’s going to be impossible to braid my hair later. Which should be the least of my worries, but for some reason it’s the first thing that comes to my mind.
Cameron works diligently, giving me a cortisone shot to help with the swelling before gently spreading ointment over my hand and wrapping it with the same care. A silvery lock of hair falls over his forehead. He looks up at me, sage green eyes meeting mine, and refiguring my heart all at once to a different tune.
His nose is almost touching mine. Birchwood has slowly become a comfort scent for me, and I’ll never admit it to anyone.
“Why did you stop the fight?” I look down and tilt my chin away from him. Both of his hands are pressed against the table on either side of me, caging me in. “I could’ve finished her off.”
He lets out a low breath. “If I didn’t catch her boot, your knuckles would’ve been shattered. They would never heal right.You’re welcome,” he says snidely.
My cheeks feel hot, and rage flurries through me. “I don’t need your help out there!” I shout in his face, and his eyes snap wide as he takes in my anger.
“Emery, I was only?—”
I push him out of my way and slip by him. “Now everyone hates us more because we’re getting special treatment. They all think I’m weak!”
How many times has my father told me I’m weak? That everything I do is never enough because I’m small and a woman. I gnash my teeth together. I know I’m overreacting with Cameron, but I feel so triggered right now I’m not sure I can stop.
I shake my head and march toward the door before I say anything too cruel. As I open it, he slams his hand above my head and keeps the door closed. The heat from his body radiates at my back.
He’s quiet for a moment too long, stretching my soul as I wait for him to say something.
“Nobody thinks you’re weak, Em.” His voice is a deep whisper. I have a physical response to him calling meEm. My chest feels like it’s being suffocated.
Liar. You think I’m weak.
I turn, intending to shove him back so I can leave, but his eyes are pleading.
“Say it,” he mutters.
I freeze. “Say what?” My voice loses all fury. I know he’s just trying to keep me in suitable condition for the trials. I know it and yet… I don’t want to get used to him protecting me when he’s going to be the one slaying me in the end.
It’s torture, what he’s doing to me.
“That you aren’t weak.”
I study his expression before letting a callous laugh slip at his serious expression. “Cameron, I know I’m not weak. But everyone out there? They think I am… Do you have any idea what I’ve done with these hands?” He does. He just doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know what Reed and the world made me.
His eyes don’t waver. “I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”
“It’d make you sick.”
“I’m already sick.” A sly grin spreads over his lips, though what we’re talking about isn’t funny at all. “I promise I’ve donemuchworse.” His voice doesn’t match the pain I see in his eyes. Phantoms of violence and gore flicker there, things he regrets but will continue to do mercilessly just like I will.
We do what we need to in order to survive. That’s it.
The truth is,I’mthe one who isn’t ready to talk about it. I like being the unknown grotesque artist. Once the curtain is drawn and everyone sees me, the magic is gone.
He must see the misery in my gaze because he shifts off the door, though he remains standing an inch away from my back.
As I open the door to leave, he murmurs, “You’ll have to tell me eventually. Just like I’ll have to tell you.”
