“Three of your ribs are broken.”
“I figured.”
The healers continue working, their silence oddly comforting. Treating me is probably their worst nightmare. If they mess up, if they make a wrong decision and I die, Aziel will kill them. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He’s relatively tame nowadays, but he’s still a Wrath.
The fire burns through his veins, too.
If I were going to die, though, I’d already be dead.
What feels like hours pass before the healers remove their hands and step back, giving me space.
“Do you need help returning—”
“No.”
Rexton’s instructions were clear. Let the Wraths see me bleed, accept help from the healers, but don’t appear weak. I stand, my knees locking, before stepping outside.
Raum stands ten feet outside the tent, as still as a statue as he waits for me to emerge. His gaze immediately drops to my chest, to the blood and stitches, before dipping lower to my bruised ribcage. I could pull the cut ends of my shirt together and hide my exposed skin from his view. It’s what I’d typically do, but I don’t.
Several seconds pass before he finally looks up, meeting my gaze. I’m expecting him to rush forward and demand I tell him what happened. I expect him to send me home to recover. He surprises me, though.
Blood flows to my cheeks as he lowers his gaze to the ground and dips his chin, a subtle sign of respect. Then he straightens up and turns away, leaving without a single word.
I return to my tent, wincing with every step. Several demons run forward, offering to help, but I wave them away. I can do this.
I’m covered in sweat by the time I reach my tent. My cot calls to me, and my feet drag against the ground as I head straight for it. Rexton said to bathe, but there’s no way I’m following that particular instruction. I’m too exhausted. I lie on my cot instead, careful not to jostle my chest and ribcage. Death can take me now. I’m ready for it.
The entrance to my tent is pushed aside, the thick fabric parting to reveal Rexton. He’s blurry, and I rub my eyes as hesecures the loose flaps behind him. I should’ve done that. I’m usually good about remembering to do so.
“You look like shit.”
I choke out a laugh. “Thank you.”
Rexton lingers by the door, his gaze flickering around the space. My accommodations are scarce.
My cot is pushed against the right wall, and a small desk and my bathing tub are on the left. Some people decorate their tents with trinkets that remind them of home, but I have no interest in that. The only personal item I considered bringing was a bottle of liquor.
I regret not doing so. The warm burn of alcohol would have been a good distraction from the gaping hole in my chest.
Rexton frowns. “You’re filthy, too.”
“I’m aware.”
“I had your bath filled so you could clean yourself.”
“I’m aware.”
“So why haven’t you?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
Rexton sighs, rolling up his sleeves. I suspect I know why, and I fight back a desperate, pleading cry as he moves for me.
“Go away,” I order. “I don’t want to.”
My head lolls, my chin pressing against my chest. I don’t want to bathe. It includes sitting up, undressing, scrubbing, drying, redressing, and so many other things I don’t have the energy for.
“Later,” I promise. I’m getting desperate. “I’ll do it later.”
