Chapter Twenty-Two Wren
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wren
Day is known for her ambition; Dawn, her gentle strength; and Dusk…she is often mistaken for death itself.
—Origin of the Fates, Chapter Fifteen
Damien leaned over me, his dark hair falling into his face. We lay upon supple green grass, the breeze tickling the orange trees in the distance.
“What are you thinking, sunshine?” he murmured in my ear, sparking my nerves. He pulled back and studied my face, a great grin brightening his handsome features. “And a blush? Is that for me?”
“So cocky,” I managed. My thoughts had strayed to a somewhat…risqué place.
“You wouldn’t like me any other way,” he said, shifting so his elbows rested on either side of my head. He teased me with his proximity. With how his body draped over mine. Fates, I could feel every hard ridge of him, every sinewy muscle.
I reached up and flicked his nose, startling him. “Bring down the ego a peg, and we’ll see.”
“You little liar.” He shifted, tugging me with him as he spun onto his back, forcing my legs to fall on either side of him. From this angle, I saw the golden light of the sun cascade over his softened features. His easy smile. The one he gave only me.
“Says the thief.”
“Former thief,” he amended with a scoff. “Or am I not as appealing now that I’m a hardworking man?” He angled his chin behind us, to where our home sat. A modest thing constructed of wood and painted a pastel blue—at my request.
I shook my head. “No. You did it. And I”—I paused for dramatic effect—“I found out just how much I enjoy toying with Hazel Glen’s politicians. Who’d have thought I’d like to argue so much?”
He laughed, so deep and full it warmed my chest. My heart. My soul.
“Oh, sunshine. You surprise me every day.”
“Good.” I leaned down, my lips inches from his. “I have to keep you on your toes.”
A clattering rang from far away, forcing my head up. “What was that?”
Damien shrugged. “Don’t know or care.” His arms ran up my thighs, his touch like fire. He settled on the small of my waist. “I just want you to come back here.”
The noise came again, louder this time.
“No, I heard—”
I jolted up in bed, a flush on my face and my heart pounding.
I’d dreamt of the bastard. Imagined a life together.
My face scrunched as I silently admonished myself—that was never the plan.
I had to continuously remind myself of this.
Whether it was with him or another, I wouldn’t tie myself to someone else forever. They’d only take advantage. Trap me.
Just a silly dream.
Something struck the window hard enough that a small crack formed. I lurched from bed, ignoring the way the tree’s limbs cast eerie shadows on the walls.
Yanking up the window, I stared out into the dimness, my eyesight adjusting. “I swear, Damien, if you ever come back—”
My mouth shut.
Sure enough, Damien hung from the tree with one hand, his footing unsteady on the branch beneath his boots. His eyes were shut, his shirt stained black at his shoulder. Fates, he appeared half awake.
“Damien?” Dread constricted my throat, his name coming out distorted.
Something bad had happened. His face…it was too pale, even in the moonlight.
I leaned over when he didn’t reply, the top half of my body dangling from the window. Grasping his face, I forced him to look up, giving him a small shake when he didn’t stir.
I cursed. That same dark color slicked his cheeks, his forehead, his lips.
“Come inside,” I coaxed, my blood pounding, my instincts rearing up in alarm to protect him. To get him off that damned tree before his grip loosened and he fell. Anxiety, like insects, swarmed the inside of my stomach, and I had to remind myself several times to breathe.
“Damien, I need you to help me.” He mumbled something incoherent but managed to look at the window. “There’s a small ledge below,” I instructed quickly, praying he didn’t let go of the trunk. “I’m going to pull you, and your feet are going to aim for that ledge. Look down. Find it.”
An odd panic shook my voice. I watched as he angled his head to the ledge, which was just wide enough for him to rest the tip of his boots.
“Count to three with me, Damien.” He slowly, too slowly, found my eyes. “We can do it. You just have to trust me. Jump when I say, all right?”
I had no idea what I was doing or whether I could support most of his weight. All I understood was that he would bleed out in front of me if I did nothing. The darkness smelled of copper, the scent of it permeating my senses. “Damien.”
He locked eyes, holding firm as he nodded. “F-fine,” he muttered. “Don’t d-drop me, sunshine.”
“I won’t,” I assured him, even if I wasn’t confident in that promise.
“Now. One.” I grabbed his hand, my other one resting close to his hand that clutched the tree trunk.
“Two.” I let out a steady exhale. There wasn’t time to question this.
“Three!” With every ounce of strength I possessed, I yanked him forward, and Damien did his best to lunge toward my window.
I groaned when he struck the side, only one boot managing to catch the ledge.
My grip was the lone thing keeping him from tumbling backward.
“Wren,” he murmured, his head lolling. “Please.”
My grip on him loosened, his hands clammy and cold. So very cold. I dug my bare heels into the wooden planks at my feet, cursing like I never had before as I awkwardly lugged him closer.
In his state, I was going to have to take over almost entirely.
Wishing I possessed the gift of strength, I bit my cheek and pulled, hauling his limp body through my window, ignoring his small whimpers of pain when he grazed the sill.
Damien and I fell to the floor at the same time—me, sweaty and on my back, and him sprawled face down across the boards, unmoving.
I didn’t waver.
Lighting the lamp beside my bed, I brought it to him and inspected him.
He wore trousers and a stark white shirt, though blood stained most of it and the material had been brutally ripped at his left shoulder.
Leaping up, I raced to my desk and snagged a pair of sewing scissors.
Back at his side, I slashed through the fabric, tearing it from his body with shaking hands.
Scraps lay around me in a pile, revealing his torn flesh.
I was no expert or healer, but someone had stabbed him. Blood trickled from the wound, which required stitches, and it coated most of his back. Based on the way the front of his shirt had looked, I assumed the weapon had run right through him.
Should I go get help? Find a doctor? Wake Callie?
I wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Punch something.
I was out of my depth here, and he’d die if I sat and watched him fade away as pain shook him. Terror raced into my veins, constricting my breathing. I had to get help.
I rose, but Damien weakly lifted his head, his hand seizing my wrist with more force than I believed him capable of. He avoided my gaze when he spoke, his eyes still shut. “Only y-you, Wren. Don’t…n-no one else.”
He didn’t want me to involve anyone. No matter how desperately I yearned to wake someone and have them assess his state, to free my hands of the burden of possibly losing him because I wasn’t capable enough.
He swayed, barely keeping his head up as his eyes peeled open.
They bored into mine with such intensity, such conviction, that I nodded in assent.
Gently, I dropped his hand and padded outside my room.
The hall was clear, Damien’s arrival not having woken anyone.
As quickly as possible, I slipped down the stairs and to the parlor.
There I found Father’s liquor. Back upstairs, bottle in hand, I stopped at the linen closet and grabbed a handful of the old towels Sarah used when she cleaned.
Ones that wouldn’t be missed. Below those shelves, she kept some spare sheets. I took them too.
Supplies in hand, I scrambled back to my room, locked the door, and placed the items on the floor before taking my sewing kit from my desk. An uneasy calm overtook me, my mind homing in on his wound and pushing the rest of the world away.
He wasn’t going to die.
He couldn’t.
I wasn’t sure when Damien and his moodiness had gotten beneath my skin, but he was there, steadfast and refusing to release me.
Something about him forever drew me to him, and while we bickered and fought, he’d been the one to help me on my quest. Even if he required a few pieces of silver.
Something in the back of my mind told me he would help me now without the coin. I wanted to believe that.
Adjusting my measly instruments, I shoved down the panic rising in my throat like bile.
It was either hesitate or take action, and I’d hesitated most of my life.
My eyes prickled as I assessed the ruined mess of skin.
The attacker appeared to have come at him from behind, aiming for his heart.
Fortunately, they had terrible aim. Or Damien had shifted at the last second. Either way, he got lucky.
Pouring water onto a towel from the pitcher on my nightstand, I cleaned around the wound as quickly as possible.
Next I drenched a fresh cloth with the liquor.
Damien hissed when I gingerly cleansed the open gash, his eyes briefly opening before fluttering shut.
Fuck. The earlier panic overrode everything now, and I could no longer shove down my emotions.
Frantically, I poured the bottle directly on his wound.
Damien didn’t wake this time. He must’ve passed out from the pain.
I was a terrible nurse.
Threading my needle, I began my clumsy stitches, having never done this before.
I winced when the needle pierced his skin, and cursed the entire time, loathing the grunts of pain he unconsciously released whenever the sharp needle pierced him.
Far from the best, due to my trembling limbs and heavy breathing, the stitches were at least tight enough to stop the flow of blood.
I hoped.