“I think Roveen is a Tèmtárh. That language … I’m pretty sure it’s the same one she speaks.” Her eyes go wide with excitement. “Wait, can you help me translate a message to add to my pictogram?” She points at the window where her carving is waiting.
“Of course.” I push a slice of graying meat across my tray. “I suppose we should have thought of that before you did all that work.”
She shrugs. “Sometimes you don’t think about the things you need until after you need them.” She gives me an appreciative smile, and we dive headfirst into coming up with a suitable phrase. It’s ingenious really, leaving a carving that is likely to only be found by other nurses or gladiators. Hopefully, Roveen does find it. It will make our return much easier.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Amara asks, after we’ve updated her message to Roveen.
I glance at the questionable food and feel my stomach churn. “I am not sure I would consider thisfood.”
She smiles playfully. “I think it’s great.”
“You will eat anything, won’t you?”
Her eyes flick down below my waist, and her brows raise suggestively.
“Not what I meant,” I say.
“Still funny.” Another piece of graying meat disappears into her mouth. “And no, I’m not too picky anymore. Enough time in the military, or here, will do that to you.”
I hum a sound of understanding. “You should put your dress back on. I do not know when Gaius will want to meet,and the guards should not see you like this.” Our plan hinges on discretion.
She glances at the crumpled, stained garment on the floor, and an almost imperceptible shudder rolls through her. “I will. In a bit.”
Her reaction is painful to witness. That pile of fabric has become a symbol of her bondage, and I wish there was something I could do to protect her from it. Unfortunately, she will have to wear it. The illusion must be maintained.
Gods, this plan is foolish…
I push my tray to the side, no longer interested in it. The caloric injections I received will last another day or two, even if my stomach feels painfully empty.
Amara looks at my unfinished meal like I’ve lost my mind. “Are you really not going to eat that?” When I shake my head, she proceeds to clear my leftovers with a hum of satisfaction. “I feel so much better,” she says, as she leans back and kicks a leg out, readjusting the sheet in the process and revealing a strangely shaped blotch of blood on the white fabric.
“Is that …?” I ask, turning my head to get a better view of the stain. “Did you write on the sheet in blood?”
She glances down to where I am looking and shrugs. “Yeah. I didn’t have anything else to write with, and I needed to keep track of your heart rate.”
Sure enough, the smudges appear to be a series of base-10 numerals. Side-eyeing the ominous smears, I ask, “Where did you learn that trick?”
“Navy.” When she notices my raised brows, she elaborates. “We would write triage information, like the time a tourniquet was placed, on casualties’ bodies so?—”
“In blood?” I blurt out, accidentally interrupting her.
“Well, no, you’re supposed to use a permanent marker, but when shit hits the fan, you use whatever you’ve got. Last deployment,some shitlicker shot my marker, and while blood doesn’t have much staying power, it works in a pinch. Or at least until you can get someone else’s marker.”
I swallow back my surprise. “You were shot?”
“Not that day.”
“You just said…”
“My armor—and I guess my marker—caught that round.”
I shake my head. “So you were shot another time?”
She lifts her arm and points to a scar beneath her bicep that I had not noticed before. “Just a little,” she says with a wink.
It takes me a moment before I can find my words. “What happened?”
Her brows knit together like she doesn’t understand my question. “I was shot.”
