But when she turned back to Loren, the first aid kit slipped from her hands, landing on the stone floor with a dull thud as she got her first good look at him. It was worse than she could have imagined. So much worse.
Loren lay crumpled on the cold floor, his blood soaking into the straw scattered haphazardly across the cell, as if he had struggled. His shirt hung from him in tattered, blood-soaked scraps, doing nothing to hide the deep, angry slices that marred his chest and arms, some still oozing blood. Where he wasn’t bleeding, dark, mottled bruises spread across his skin.
But it wasn’t just the fresh wounds—his ribs jutted sharplybeneath his torn shirt, his skin waxy and stretched too thin over hard angles. Some of the bruises were older, faded to sickly yellow, and puckered scars marked where old cuts had healed.
“Oh, Loren,” Araya whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. She reached out, but stopped short of touching him, fearing even the gentlest touch would hurt him. His head lolled, his dark matted hair plastered to his ashen skin. If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, each jagged breath rattling like a dying echo in the stillness, she would have thought he was gone.
She scrambled for the first aid kit, fumbling it open with shaking hands. Her heart sank as she took in the pitiful contents—bandages, clean linen cloths, a small vial of antiseptic…not even a suture kit. Basic, suitable for minor injuries—not…this.
He needed a Healer. A real one. Not her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, dabbing at one of the cuts on his chest. Loren shuddered under her touch, a low, pained moan escaping his lips. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, her voice choked. “I’m trying to be gentle, I swear.”
She worked in silence, her focus narrowing to the rhythm of cleaning and dressing his wounds as best she could. She had to discard his shirt entirely, peeling the tattered, filthy fabric away from his skin with careful fingers. Most of the cuts beneath were shallow and neat, already closing. But the others—some of them were deep, jagged gashes, slicing all the way to the bone. She dressed those carefully, doing her best to pull the edges of the wounds together without a suture kit.
Her breath hitched when she reached his wrists. The iron manacles had bitten deep into the flesh, carving fresh gashes into old scars. Blood pooled in the raw wounds, mixing with dirt and rust, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.
Finally, there was nothing else she could do. Slowly, she gathered the bloodied cloths and the empty vials of antiseptic, tears dripping down her face. When she was done, she stroked her fingers along a small patch of unmarred skin on his face, trying to compose herself.Loren stirred faintly at her touch, but his eyes didn’t open. She doubted he even knew she was here.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered one last time, her voice trembling. Rising slowly, turned to the door, her throat still choked with tears as she knocked twice. The keys grated in the lock and the door opened, letting her back out into the corridor. Aeron waited there, his posture stiff as he locked the door again behind her.
“This one is yours,” he said, handing her the second key. “Master Shaw had it made for you. So you can come on your own next time.”
Araya swallowed hard, the key in her palm heavier than iron. Of course, there would be a next time. There always would be. Jaxon had no reason to stop. And now, neither did she.
Chapter
Fourteen
Araya hadn’t seenJaxon since the dungeon yesterday. He hadn’t come home until late—long after she’d poured the tea she’d brewed down the drain. Araya had actually wanted her dreams to bring her to him last night, hoping against hope for some small confirmation that he hadn’t died in there, alone and cold, because of her.
But she hadn’t gotten it.
He was sleeping soundly when she finally slipped out of their bed, dressing in the bathroom and leaving the apartment on silent feet. She wasn’t avoiding him. Not entirely. She just wasn’t ready to see him—not when she couldn’t be certain she could keep her opinion of how he’d left Loren behind her clenched teeth.
“I might be a while,” Araya told the driver as she climbed down from the carriage, balancing her basket of pastries on her hip. “You don’t have to wait.”
“Sorry, Miss Starwind.” The driver didn’t meet her eye. “Master Shaw—your Master Shaw—said we’re not to leave you anywhere but the Aetherium.”
“He—” Araya started, then stopped. She wanted to say Jaxon wouldn’t have done that. But he’d been furious the last time she leftwithout a carriage. And this… it did feel like something he would do. But wouldn’t he have told her?
“I lived in this neighborhood for years,” she said instead. “You really don’t have to wait. I’ll be fine.”
The driver shook his head, gaze fixed just over her shoulder. “I understand, miss. But I still have to stay.”
Part of Araya wanted to argue—but no one who worked for the Shaw family disobeyed orders. Not when they came from Jaxon or Garrick. If she argued and tried to force the issue, she would be the one who suffered for it later.
“I’ll be quick,” she said quietly.
The clinic looked exactly as she remembered it—squat and square, its stone facade softened by ivy and peeling paint. The benches outside were empty at this hour, but later they’d fill with people laughing and chatting as they waited their turn. Just a few months ago, Araya would have sat among them without a second thought. But today, she hesitated on the doorstep, feeling like a trespasser.
Bracing herself, Araya knocked sharply on the cheery blue door, the sound echoing too loudly in the dawn quiet.
Serafina opened the door a moment later, already dressed in her blue Healer’s robes, her hair pinned back in the same no-nonsense twist Araya remembered. She said nothing at first, just looked at her—really looked—her eyes pausing on the basket, then flicking past her to the black carriage waiting on the street.
“I brought breakfast,” Araya said quietly, lifting the basket between them. “I was hoping we could talk.”
For a moment, Serafina didn’t move. Her mouth tightened, her expression unreadable, and Araya braced herself for the door to close in her face.
