His face tenses, every muscle going rigid. His jaw clenches and twitches, a vein pulsing at his temple.
“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he says through gritted teeth, turning away from me. “Forget it and go back to your suite.”
“Why would he do that to you?” I press, taking a step closer despite the warning in his posture.
“He’s an animal,” he hisses, bitter and raw. His hands curl into fists at his sides. “In one way I’m lucky he doesn’t kill me, but he needs me. I take my punishment and move on.” He whirls back to face me, desperation flashing in his eyes. “Listen to me this time—just go.”
He turns back to the door and twists the handle. I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t leave it at that. I sprint past him and block his way.
He sighs again.
“Please. Let me help you clean and tend your back. I kind of owe you.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, then shakes his head with a resigned smile. He steps aside and opens the door wider. I duck under the arm holding it and take in his suite as he closes it with a quiet click of finality.
The layout mirrors my own, but where mine is light and airy—pastels and whites—his is brooding. Dark wood furniture, blacks and greys and creams. It’s neat and tidy, surprisingly personal. Black and white paintings of landscapes andbuildings scatter the walls. Daggers, swords and other weapons rest on stands throughout. It feels lived in. Cozy, even.
He sits on the sofa and I stand there awkwardly.
“Do you have anything I can use to clean and dress your back?” I ask eventually, breaking the tension.
“Yes. In the bathroom.”
I walk through to his bedroom. Where the lounge is neat, this room looks ravaged. The bed is unmade and ruffled, clothes strewn across the floor, the musty smell of sweat lingering. I search the bathroom for supplies—clean cloths, ointment, a bowl I fill with water. When I return to the lounge, I nearly drop everything at the sight of him, at the reality of his father’s beating.
Kiernan has stripped to just his trousers, facing away from me. Purple bruises mottle his skin. Large welts crisscross his entire back. In places the skin is torn, blood dripping down.
I set the supplies on the coffee table and sit on the sofa behind him, careful not to catch him.
“This may hurt. Sorry.” I say, soothing.
I dip a cloth into the water and bring it to his back. He hisses and jolts slightly as I touch him, cleaning away the blood—some already drying. I grab a dry cloth and press it to the worst cuts.
“Have you done this before? Healing, I mean?” His question startles me from my focus.
“At home, I helped the Healing Fae treat villagers.” My voice catches, and I have to swallow hard before I can continue. “I used to hope that if I ever got a Gift, I’d be a Healer.” The words come out softer than I intend, thick with all the years of waiting for something that never came.
“You’d make an excellent Healing Fae.”
I laugh softly at his compliment, noting the cuts have stopped bleeding. I swap the saturated cloth for a fresh one and clean off the last of the blood.
“Okay, this part really is going to hurt.” I open the jar of ointment.
“I’m sure I’ve felt worse pain. Ouch!”
The ointment is cool and soothing. I apply it liberally over his back.
“Does this happen often? The beatings?” I’m not sure he’ll reply. When he does, his voice is hard and cold.
“Usually when I’ve defied or displeased him. Which doesn’t happen often, thankfully. I don’t typically have reason to defy him. Until now.”
“And you tend the damage yourself?”
“I’m not usually lucky enough to have such a pretty nurse attend to me.”
Another compliment. That made two now. I blink at him, unsure what to make of this sudden shift. My chest tightens with confusion, uncertain whether to feel flattered or wary.
“You really should visit a Healing Fae.”
