And it would never be enough for how he’d failed her.
Latham reached his tent and took a deep breath before entering. It was late and he was exhausted. The need for sleep overwhelmed him—he needed strength for the coming days. He doubted he’d be able to, though.
He entered his tent and undressed as though in a daze, falling onto the bed of furs. His eyes closed and his stomach sank even lower as a warm body, so familiar to him now, curled around him, holding him close.
Lightfilteredthroughherclosed lids.
No, not again.Wasn’t yesterday supposed to be her last? Shouldn’t they have killed her by now? Surely they were sick of this never-ending cycle. Even being the one doing the torturing had to get tedious. She would know—each time she had to be the one to question a prisoner, it took a toll on her.
Though she doubted a sadist cared as she did.Hehad no soul. None of them did.
Solveig kept her eyes clamped shut, unable to bring herself to open her eyes on another day. Damn the sun to Hel, she hated it so.
Loud, unfamiliar sounds were coming from outside the cave. There were only ever five of them, what could be happening that so many had gathered? Did they want witnesses to her execution? Did they move her while she was sleeping?
The edges of her memory were fuzzy, but she was grateful for the reprieve of confusion.
She was sure the commotion meant that she would not survive the day. Terror coursed through her followed swiftly by relief. It was over. She squeezed her eyes and sank farther into the bed.
The soft bed.
Memories slammed into her. Escaping the cave,hisscreams as she smashed the hammer down on his bones, racing through the forest at night, eating raw fish, blacking out from the pain of hunger, crawling towards the river. Strong arms carrying her.I have you, hold on.Latham’s sad eyes.
Her own eyes flew open as she took in her surroundings.
She was no longer in the infirmary—someone had moved her to one of the private recovery tents they used for very ill or dying patients. She didn’t feel like she was dying, though. She felt ... she didn’t know what she felt.
The terror of waking up still thinking she was in the cave left her with a sheen of sweat coating her body. She raised her hands straight over her head. In the cave, even in her dreams, she was shackled to the ground.
Her arms rose in front of her, the skin pale with yellowing splotches of fading bruises and covered in bandages. She was out. This was real. She took three deep breaths. The third breath huffed out of her in relief and tears started rolling down her face.
She hadn’t been able to take calming breaths since she was captured.
A loud barking voice cut through the noise outside. Laeknir. He was not the kind of male one might picture a healer to be. Instead of soft and comforting, he was gruff and callous.
Years of treating soldiers on the battlefield had hardened him. He had no patience and very little empathy. He would not suffer fools or whiners. Solveig could tell by sound alone there was a large crowd outside, but they must’ve been pushing their luck, because he shouted at them to leave.
Solveig could picture the old witch grabbing the hilt of his sword, blond-grey beard in braids and head bald, thick bushy eyebrows set in a permanent scowl. By the sound of it, it was enough to send the people scattering. A small smile tugged at her mouth.
Without knocking or announcing himself, Laeknir entered the cave. Not the cave—the tent.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked in greeting. She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could even if she wanted to. The only sounds she’d made for three months were screams and sobs. She’d never uttered a word, even when she was alone at night, scared that even a whisper would break her.
Laeknir approached her bedside, and with surprisingly gentle hands, he took her pulse and counted her breaths. He peered into her eyes and checked the worst of the wounds first, changing the dressings before offering her another cup of the foul liquid.
She took it without question and drank it down even though the smell burned her nose. Laeknir gave a nod of approval. He brought the wooden chair from the corner of the tent and seated himself beside her bed. She was propped up in a seated position and they stared at each other. Solveig waited for him to speak, but he just continued to stare.
After a few minutes, he sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees.
“Your body appears to be healing remarkably well.” It wasn’t a question. “Those bruises should’ve taken days, if not weeks to heal, and yet they’re already vanishing.” Still no question. Not that she would answer him anyway.
“The cuts and scrapes are almost gone, too, even the ones that showed signs of early infection yesterday.” He narrowed his eyes. She mimicked him which made him huff a dry laugh.
“Stubborn as always, I see.” He leaned back in his chair. “Well, I know they didn’t cut out your tongue. I saw it yesterday when youwere thrashing about.” Solveig smirked again at his no-nonsense bedside manner.
“Yeah, and I see they didn’t completely break your spirit—you’ve still got some fire in you.” Her face fell and she retreated, grasping for a safe place in her mind from the memories. There was none. Laeknir surprised her again when he reached for her hand and held it between his large palms.
His hands were warm and rough, and the long-forgotten comfort of them made her eyes well up again.
