Chapter Thirty-Two
CASSIA
REXTON PRACTICALLY CARRIES me to the edge of camp. We pause just outside it.
“This is where I leave you.” He removes his hand from my waist, no longer steadying me. I sway despite my best attempts to remain still. “Walk through camp. Let everybody see that you fought for Wrath—that you’re willing to bleed for Wrath.”
What?
“You’re more than just Aziel’s spoiled daughter,” Rexton continues. “Let them see it.”
I groan, grabbing Rexton’s shoulder for support. “I can’t walk.”
I hate asking for help, but I don’t have any other options. I can barely fucking stand, let alone walk across camp.
“You can,” Rexton says. “Go to the healers, get stitched up, then return to your tent. I’ll brief Raum.”
He slides the trachea out of my hand, replacing it with a bloody knife. It belongs to one of the Greeds. When did Rexton grab it?
I move to take back the trachea. It’s mine.
“I’m not keeping it,” Rexton says, pulling it out of my reach. “It’s unnerving, and you don’t need to carry it around camp. I’ll give it back to you later. You have a tub in your tent, don’t you?”
I hesitate, then nod. I’m not supposed to have one.
There’s no running water out here, and bathing is considered a waste of resources.
Only a select few are granted the luxury.
It’s reserved for veterans, for Wraths who have fought and bled for their kingdom.
Raum has one, and I suspect Rexton does, too.
Everybody else is expected to use the communal showers. The water is collected through rainfall, and it leaves me feeling dirty. It’s cold, too.
So I snuck a soaking tub into camp, and I bribe low-ranking Wraths to fill it whenever I feel exceptionally filthy. People would think less of me if they knew the lengths I went to secure myself some comfort, but I decided it’s worth the risk.
“I’ll have it filled for you,” Rexton says. There’s no judgment in his gaze. Why? He continues. “I know you’re tired, but clean your wounds thoroughly before going to sleep. It’ll help you heal. Trust me.”
I won’t do that, but I’m too exhausted to argue.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
Rexton hesitates, then shrugs. “I don’t think you’re as horrible as you want people to believe you are. Truthfully, I feel bad for you.”
I’m exactly as horrible as I want people to believe I am, and I don’t need his pity.
Rexton nudges me forward. “Go.”
I whine, then begin hobbling to the healing tent. People openly stare, and I desperately hope what Rexton said is true. Will the Wraths think I’m weak for getting injured? Rexton seems inclined to believe they won’t, but he has every reason to lie.
He has every reason to humiliate me. I can’t say I don’t deserve it after everything I’ve done and said to him.
There’s a small line of soldiers waiting outside the healing tent, but they stumble aside and gesture me through as they take notice of my current state. A wound of this size would kill most demons, but I have Aziel’s blood coursing through my veins.
I may technically be half-human, but I’m stronger than almost everybody here. I remind myself of that as I push through the tent flaps and sink into the nearest chair. Two men are on me in an instant, cutting open my shirt for better access to my chest.
Judging by their mirrored gasps, things aren’t looking good.
My face screws up as they tinker with me, poking and prodding before shoving things inside my chest and stitching together the wound. There isn’t much they can do. I know that. Demons heal quickly, and my body will heal naturally.
It just needs time. And sleep.
“Make sure Aziel—”
I interrupt. “Do you update Aziel on every Wrath who enters this tent?”
The healer snaps his mouth shut, then roughly shakes his head.
“Then you won’t do so for me.” I gesture to my half-sewn chest. “Now finish up.”
My eyes screw shut. I count to one hundred and back down again as fire licks up my chest and into my throat.
“Three of your ribs are broken.”
“I figured.”
The healers continue working, their silence oddly comforting. Treating me is probably their worst nightmare. If they mess up, if they make a wrong decision and I die, Aziel will kill them. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He’s relatively tame nowadays, but he’s still a Wrath.
The fire burns through his veins, too.
If I were going to die, though, I’d already be dead.
What feels like hours pass before the healers remove their hands and step back, giving me space.
“Do you need help returning—”
“No.”
Rexton’s instructions were clear. Let the Wraths see me bleed, accept help from the healers, but don’t appear weak. I stand, my knees locking, before stepping outside.
Raum stands ten feet outside the tent, as still as a statue as he waits for me to emerge.
His gaze immediately drops to my chest, to the blood and stitches, before dipping lower to my bruised ribcage.
I could pull the cut ends of my shirt together and hide my exposed skin from his view.
It’s what I’d typically do, but I don’t.
Several seconds pass before he finally looks up, meeting my gaze. I’m expecting him to rush forward and demand I tell him what happened. I expect him to send me home to recover. He surprises me, though.
Blood flows to my cheeks as he lowers his gaze to the ground and dips his chin, a subtle sign of respect. Then he straightens up and turns away, leaving without a single word.
I return to my tent, wincing with every step. Several demons run forward, offering to help, but I wave them away. I can do this.
I’m covered in sweat by the time I reach my tent.
My cot calls to me, and my feet drag against the ground as I head straight for it.
Rexton said to bathe, but there’s no way I’m following that particular instruction.
I’m too exhausted. I lie on my cot instead, careful not to jostle my chest and ribcage.
Death can take me now. I’m ready for it.
The entrance to my tent is pushed aside, the thick fabric parting to reveal Rexton. He’s blurry, and I rub my eyes as he secures the loose flaps behind him. I should’ve done that. I’m usually good about remembering to do so.
“You look like shit.”
I choke out a laugh. “Thank you.”
Rexton lingers by the door, his gaze flickering around the space. My accommodations are scarce.
My cot is pushed against the right wall, and a small desk and my bathing tub are on the left. Some people decorate their tents with trinkets that remind them of home, but I have no interest in that. The only personal item I considered bringing was a bottle of liquor.
I regret not doing so. The warm burn of alcohol would have been a good distraction from the gaping hole in my chest.
Rexton frowns. “You’re filthy, too.”
“I’m aware.”
“I had your bath filled so you could clean yourself.”
“I’m aware.”
“So why haven’t you?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
Rexton sighs, rolling up his sleeves. I suspect I know why, and I fight back a desperate, pleading cry as he moves for me.
“Go away,” I order. “I don’t want to.”
My head lolls, my chin pressing against my chest. I don’t want to bathe. It includes sitting up, undressing, scrubbing, drying, redressing, and so many other things I don’t have the energy for.
“Later,” I promise. I’m getting desperate. “I’ll do it later.”
I need sleep.
My eyes slip shut, and I try my damned hardest to ignore the pulsating pain in my ribcage. Every breath hurts, and I wish I could kill those Greeds all over again. Who spears people? It’s an outdated attack, one I wasn’t expecting.
Rexton grabs my shoulders, and I cry out as I’m forced out of my cot. This is not what I want, and I glare at the top of Rexton’s head as he crouches and taps my leg.
“Foot up,” he instructs.
Fuck him. I place both my hands on his head, my fingers sinking into his hair as I use him for stability. He lets me, not arguing as he rips my shoes and socks off. My pants are next. Rexton guides them down my legs with suspiciously gentle movements.
He leaves my underwear untouched, probably because he knows what’s good for him.
I’m vulnerable, but I haven’t forgotten who I am.
If he tries taking advantage of this, of me, I’ll kill him.
And if I can’t kill him, then I’ll run to my fathers and let them do it.
If they won’t, then I’ll go to Valeria and David.
David’s a little bitch, but Valeria wouldn’t hesitate to kill Rexton if he assaulted me. I have no doubt about it. She’d be successful, too. The fates are sneaky fuckers, and she’d find a way to get it done.
Rexton rises, his hands covered in blood. There’s a lot of it, and I grimace as I notice the droplets on the ground. They trail from the entrance of my tent to my cot, and my sheets appear damp.
Shit. I’ve been bleeding on it. I didn’t notice.
Rexton eyes my destroyed shirt. The healers cut it to my belly button, and Rexton rips the fabric the rest of the way down. I’m relieved. I don’t want to lift my arms, and I don’t even help him shrug the fabric off my shoulders.
My bra was split open by the spear, and it falls to the ground as my shirt is removed.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
I still haven’t looked.
“It’ll scar,” Rexton admits. “Come on.”
He offers a hand, helping me step inside the tub. My back is to the tent entrance, a position I typically never put myself in, but I can’t bring myself to care. Despite Rexton’s several faults, I trust him not to let anybody enter.
The bathwater is lukewarm, teetering on the cold side, but it feels good. I’m burning up.
“There’s soap and washcloths on my desk,” I say.
If Rexton is going to make me bathe, then he’s going to wash me. I’m sure not going to do it. I’m going to sit here, waiting for death as he does all the hard work. Today has drained me.
Thankfully, Rexton doesn’t make a fuss. He grabs soap and a washcloth, then gets to work wiping me down.
“We’ll do your chest last,” he says.
“I don’t care.”