Cradling my fist as blood trickles down, painting my wrist in crimson, I cross the room until I find the washbowl filled with water.
Warmth begins to chase down my sleeve and the blood begins to stain. I reach for the somewhat clean linen and dip it into the bowl before bringing it to the rivulet of ichor. The gray brown rag muddies with the crimson and I dunk the cloth again in the water.
I suck in a sharp breath as I gently dip my palm in the cool basin. The sting causes my face to contort with a grimace as I swipe the rag over my wound.
With my free hand I pick out the little slivers of wood, wincing with each little tug as the slivers are pulled out.
It’s not terribly deep thank the gods, but it’s enough to make my stomach queasy looking at the unknitted flesh.
Once clean, I wrap it tightly with the spare dry linen as I silently chide myself for the recklessness.
I begin to knot the makeshift bandage but I’m unable to pull it tight with my free hand.
Just as I place the fabric in my mouth to garner more leverage, I shift towards the lantern in hopes for better light to see if the bandage has begun to stop the bleeding.
To my surprise, the door to my prison has opened. Standing in the doorframe is a forbidding shadowy figure. The flicker ofthe lantern reflects in his eyes, illuminating his green iris with gold flecks.
My body stills, steeped in uncertainty. I’m not sure why The Devourer has graced me with his presence. The hairs on my arm lift with his predernatural stare. He mirrors my own stillness as the quiet between us ebbs.
His form fitting shirt, tucked in and neat, adds a conflicting stance of his persona. He’s a beast wearing a mask of elegance. It’s perplexing, gazing at this man who is handsome but terrifying and knowing he’s committed atrocities many couldn’t fathom.
I dare not speak first. Instead I study how the shadows seem to peel off of him—how they seem to linger for no other reason than they’re entranced by his being.
Much as I am right now.
Damnit.
“I heard you scream,” he says cooly. The roughness from his voice earlier is replaced with indifference tinged with velvet.
“Hmm.” The noncommittal noise slips from my lips.
He continues, slowly easing his way closer to me, “It was my turn to guard you.”
It sounds as if he’s explaining his purpose here, as if I could truly care.
His gaze catches on the poorly wrapped cloth that is coiled around my throbbing palm. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was holding his breath by the way his chest seems to turn to stone.
“What has happened?” The same coolness floats in the air but something changes in his eyes. The pale green sharpens into a brighter mossy emerald.
Curious.
And it is curious considering the rest of his body language reveals nothing.
Excuses flip through my brain before I give in and land on the truth. “I slammed my first against the wall as I held a makeshift spear.”
I shift on the backs of my feet uncomfortably. The throb in my palm has now begun to seep into a steady ache. It’s enough where I do wish Leeson was here to heal it with her magic.
Usually I’m one to sit with the pain, welcome it even and the momentary reprieve of chaotic thoughts it grants.
This time though, it was caused by foolishness and desperation rather than the times I’ve carved into my skin out of the need for control when I’m spiraling for much different reasons.
The Devourer moves fast. In a matter of seconds he’s standing before me, his feline gaze focused on my hand.
“May I?” He slowly reaches, gesturing towards the wrapped extremity.
Before he can speak again, I gruff out, “It’s nothing. I’ve dealt with far worse.”
He shifts his eyes up and they dance between each of mine.
