CHAPTER 81 Torj
CHAPTER 81
Torj
‘Bound by a vow of protection, a bodyguard’s oath extends beyond the realm of defence to the pursuit of justice. Should their charge suffer harm, they become an instrument of retribution’
– The Protector’s Manual: A Practical Guide for Safeguarding Nobility and Royalty
W ITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, he scooped her up in his arms. She buried her face in his chest, and his heart fractured for her.
As Torj took Wren to her rooms, Cal and Kipp rushed after them. Cal’s face paled when he saw Wren. ‘What happened?’ he breathed, unlocking the door for Torj.
‘She’ll tell us when she’s ready,’ Torj replied. ‘I need you to get hot water. Medical kits. Food. Drinking water.’
‘I’ll get something to dull the pain,’ Kipp said.
Cal stared at Wren for a moment longer, his lips moving but no words coming out. Then he sprang into action, closing the door as he and Kipp left.
Wren was limp in Torj’s arms. As much as he wanted to lay her on the comfortable bed, he needed to know the extent of her injuries first. As gently as he could, he placed her in her chair and knelt before her.
‘Tell me where it hurts, Embers,’ he murmured, lacing his fingers through hers and peering into her eyes.
Wren pressed a hand to her chest. ‘Here.’
Like a heavy blanket draped over his shoulders, despair weighed down his movements as he took her hand in his and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. ‘I know.’
And he did. For he could feel her pain as acutely as if it were his own.
A strained breath shuddered out of Wren. ‘On the bench, there’s the beginnings of a salve...The same one I made for you—’
‘Tell me who to send for,’ he pleaded. ‘Tell me who can help.’
‘You,’ she said weakly. ‘Only you.’
Torj swallowed. ‘I’m no healer.’
‘I can talk you through it.’
‘But—’
‘Please, Torj. I think it will help keep my mind off the pain.’
He swallowed the lump in his throat, suppressing that instinct that had him burning for vengeance, that made him want to rip those responsible limb from limb. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Tell me what to do.’
Wren closed her eyes, sagging with relief. ‘The salve. It’s a light green colour. It should already be in the mortar...’
Torj forced himself to stand, to step away from her to do her bidding. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘You’ll need to add clove. Use the pestle to grind it together.’
It was only when Torj went to pick up the ingredients that he realized his hands were shaking. Every one of his senses was attuned to hers, the shallow rhythm of her breath, the flutter of her heartbeat in sync with his own. It engulfed him with a wave of raw emotion, and he had to brace himself against the workbench.
He allowed himself a second, no more. And then he did as she asked.
While he worked, Cal and Kipp returned with all that he had requested. They set the pails of steaming water by Wren and Cal held a canteen to her lips, helping her drink.
Torj had to force down the urge to knock Cal aside. He didn’t want anyone near her. He wanted to be the one to tend to her, to comfort her. But that was his overprotective streak sweeping in, and he had to fight it back as best he could. Wren didn’t need him crowding her like that.
‘They’re still waiting on two teams to return,’ Cal told them. ‘But they’re already planning the graduation ceremony. It seems like they want it dealt with within a fortnight or so...’
‘Torj has it from here, Cal,’ Wren said, gently pushing the canteen away. ‘Same to you, Kipp.’
‘You’re sure?’ Cal asked. ‘I could get Farissa—’
‘I don’t want Farissa,’ Wren told him. ‘If you want to help, please go check on Dessa and Zavier. See who else returned.’
‘If that’s what you want...’
‘It is. Thank you.’ The dismissal was clear.
Cal and Kipp each gave Torj a nod before they left again.
Torj brought the mortar to Wren and showed her.
‘That’s good,’ she said, shifting in her chair with a wince. ‘You’ll need to wash your hands first. Hot water and soap.’
As he turned towards the bathing room, Torj hesitated. He didn’t want to let her out of his sight.
Wren gave a weak smile. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Bear Slayer.’
Clenching his jaw, he went to wash his hands. When he returned to her, slightly more composed than before, he said, ‘We should clean your wounds first.’
‘I taught you well.’
‘That one doesn’t take a genius alchemist’s tutelage to know.’
Wren huffed a pained laugh. ‘You’d be surprised. Thea needed some thorough instructions.’ She jerked her chin towards the steaming buckets. ‘Water first. Then cleanse with alcohol. Then apply the salve. Unless something needs stitching.’
‘Kipp brought something for the pain.’
‘I feel nothing.’
‘You will.’ He held out the small flask. ‘Please. I can’t stand to cause you pain.’
To his relief, Wren took it with trembling fingers and put it to her lips, taking a decent slug and grimacing. ‘They make it taste awful on purpose,’ she muttered, leaning back in her chair with a sigh. ‘Face first, Warsword. I can feel it festering.’
Torj lowered himself to his knees and dipped a fresh linen bandage into the steaming water. Tilting Wren’s wounded cheek to the light, he wiped away the dried blood and dirt as gently as he could.
He could barely keep his voice even as he asked, ‘What made this mark?’
Wren’s throat bobbed. ‘A cane.’
Torj rinsed the linen and continued to clean the cut. ‘I should have been there.’
‘No. You shouldn’t have. Don’t you dare say otherwise.’ She was exhausted to the bone; he could hear the strain in her voice, but through that was the uncompromising strength of steel. ‘This was no failure on your part. You are not responsible for these marks.’ Her blood-stained hand gripped his chin and forced his gaze to hers. ‘Do you hear me, Warsword?’
He lost himself in her stormy eyes. ‘I hear you.’
Seemingly satisfied, Wren turned her face again, allowing him to cleanse the cut with alcohol. When he was done, she reached for the bottle and took a long swig, eyes watering as she swallowed the harsh liquor down. Torj did the same, hoping it would steady his hands.
He applied the salve as instructed, hoping it would draw the heat from the wound as it had his. He could already feel the flame of her skin.
‘There are scissors on the bench,’ Wren said as he placed the mortar on the floor.
‘Scissors?’
‘You’re going to have to cut this gown off me. The fabric around my middle...It’s stuck to my skin. I must have a few cuts and scrapes, and I’m not sure if my ribs are bruised or broken...’
Locating the scissors on Wren’s desk of chaos proved difficult, but when he found them, his chest tightened. He removed her belt, noting just how many vials were empty. She had put up a fight with everything she had.
Fitting the twin blades to the top of her gown, he started cutting downwards. It would have been quicker for him to tear the dress straight down the middle, but he was worried the motion would jolt her, and so he worked slowly, cutting away the fabric diligently. Even so, every wince, every stifled gasp she gave pierced his soul, that raw helplessness driving him to the brink.
Finally, he had cut the gown open down the front. He peeled it away from her as gently as he could, noting where the fabric had stuck to her skin with dried blood. Wren wore only her undergarments now, a thin camisole and a pair of satin shorts. Sweat beaded on her brow and Torj paused to press a cool washcloth there.
‘Nearly over,’ he told her. ‘Then you can rest.’
As gently as he could, he lifted the hem of her camisole, sliding the fabric up to bunch just below her breasts. Mottled bruising covered her ribcage, along with various cuts and scrapes.
His brow furrowed as he ghosted his fingertips over the marks, probing delicately for signs of more serious injury. Wren sucked in a sharp breath at his touch, and he paused, glancing up at her face.
But she bit her lip and gave him a stiff nod. ‘Keep going.’
His hands were steady now, because they had to be. Applying gentle pressure, he took stock of her wounds and their severity with a measured care that belied the thunder raging within him.
Wren kept still as his hands mapped out her ribs, feeling for irregularities, monitoring her breathing. ‘I don’t think anything is broken...’ His voice was low, his words tender. ‘What do you think? You’re the expert.’
‘A fracture or two at most,’ she sighed. ‘There’s salve on the bench.’
Torj retrieved the jar and scooped out a generous amount, smoothing it over her skin with a featherlight touch, his callused fingers gentle as he worked the soothing balm over her injuries.
To his surprise, she reached for him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Torj stilled, the air heavy with all the unspoken words between them. But he sighed and leaned forwards, resting his forehead against hers. ‘I’ve never been more scared in all my life, Embers.’
‘I know. But I made it out of there...’
Steeling himself, Torj pulled away and reached for more pain tonic, tipping it to her lips. She drank it without argument.
At long last, he carried her to the bed and laid her down. Her lashes fluttered against the tops of her cheeks.
‘It was worth every minute,’ she said hoarsely.
Torj stroked her hair. ‘To pass the Gauntlet?’
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘To get back to you.’