‘Are there any more wounds?’ I ask. ‘Or is this it?’
‘There’s one higher up that stings like a fucker.’
As he lifts the front ofhis top further, I struggle to stifle a gasp. It’s barely a quarter the length of the other one, but it’s at least twice as deep. And it’s still bleeding. A lot.
I try not to show my concern as I think about the herbs I have in my bag. Some would help hasten clotting, but they won’t be enough here. As I move the cloth away I know there’s only one solution to this.
‘It needs stitches.’
‘I know,’ Kyor replies. ‘That’s why I came to you. You stitched up your own hand, right? After the temple? When you were injured. I figured you were the type of person who would do it yourself rather than getting a slum rat to do it for you.’
‘Slum rats,’ I murmur, shaking my head a little. ‘That’s a great way to refer to your subjects, Your Royal Highness. You really are a man of the people, aren’t you?’
He blanches. ‘I didn’t mean?—’
‘Yes, I know exactly what you meant,’ I snap.
As tension fills the room, Kyor pulls his top down and locks his jaw. ‘This was a mistake, Thorn. Coming here, coming to you, was a mistake. I should go. Find a seamstress or something. They can sew. Among other things.’
He tries to smirk as he goes to stand, but he isn’t strong enough. Instead, his entire body sways and wobbles, his legs unable to support his weight.
‘Sit the hell down. I’ll stitch you up.’
He glowers and for a split second I think he’s going to stubbornly refuse, but then he drops back onto the bed with a groan.
‘Fine,’ he mutters.
Only when I’m sure he’s not going to move again do I pull out the small leather pouch containing my needles, though it’s the paparvy seeds in one of the side pockets that grab my attention first. No matter how much he tries to hide it, he has to be in agony. After gathering the items I need, I move over to my little gas stove.
‘I’ll give you something to take away the pain,’ I say, placing a crucible on the flame.
‘No.’ His voice is sharp and cutting. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘I won’t give you much,’ I explain patiently. ‘Just enough to take the edge off.’
‘I said no. I don’t care about the pain. Just stop the bleeding. Do it tight so it doesn’t open upwhen I fight.’
Now it’s my turn to hiss. Does he think I’ll think less of him if he takes the seed? No, it’s stubbornness, pure and simple.
‘It’s going to hurt more when I sew it up.’
‘I’ll cope.’
Never have I met someone more frustrating, more arrogant, or more absurdly attractive. Sure, I stitched up my own hand, but that cut wasn’t anywhere near as deep as this is. I shake my head and try to focus, threading the needle then holding the sharp metal over the flame to sterilise it.
‘Do you want something to bite down on?’ I ask.
‘You offering anything fun?’ he replies, mouth tilting suddenly in a flirty half-grin.
Great. Drunk, injured Kyor is a horrific flirt. Good to know. Unfortunately, that’s not going to improve with my next request.
‘No,’ I answer shortly. ‘Now, this will be easier if you take your top off,’ I say.
‘I thought you’d never ask. But I could probably do with a hand,’ he admits.
It’s hard not to be taken aback. Never have I heard this man ask for help, even indirectly, which means he’s in a serious amount of pain. There’s no chance I’m going to refuse, but the prospect of even partially undressing Kyor Knavin has my mouth dry and heat pooling low in my stomach.
Keep it professional, Rose.
