Chapter 16
Chloe
The walk back to the cottage felt different. I noticed it immediately—the way the Welati stepped aside as we passed, the subtle nods of acknowledgment, the eyes that followed Nansar with something that looked almost like respect.
I kept my hand on his arm, steadying him as he limped along the dirt path. His breathing was labored, and I felt the fever radiating from his body like a furnace, seeping through the thin barrier of his skin into my palm.
Every step cost him. The cuts across his chest had stopped bleeding, but they looked angry and raw, the edges still weeping.
A particularly nasty bruise was already darkening along his jaw, spreading like spilled ink across his pale skin.
His left eye was swelling shut, and there was a deep gash above his eyebrow that probably needed stitches—if the Welati even had such things.
Blood trickled from the split in his lip, and I watched him wince with each shallow breath. Broken rib, maybe? Or just badly bruised? I had no way of knowing, no medical training beyond basic first aid. The helplessness gnawed at me, a living thing clawing at my insides.
"We need to clean those cuts," I said quietly, my fingers tightening protectively on his arm. "Before they get infected."
He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head that made him grimace, his jaw clenching against the pain.
"They're looking at you differently," I murmured, glancing at a group of Welati females who watched us from beside a crackling cooking fire. One of them actually dipped her head in what could only be described as deference.
Nansar grunted, his jaw tight. "Victory earns respect among the Welati. Even for outsiders."
"Does that mean..." I hesitated, helping him navigate around a cluster of children who scattered like startled birds at our approach. "Does your winning reduce our chances of being killed?" Well, Nansar killed and me handed off to God knows who. A fate, in my opinion, worse than death.
He was quiet for a long moment, and when I looked up at his battered face, I saw the uncertainty there—a crack in the armor he usually wore so well. "I don't know," he admitted finally, his voice rough. "Their customs are... complex."
My stomach tightened. I'd been hoping for reassurance, for some guarantee that his brutal fight had bought us safety. But there were no guarantees here. There never had been.
His steps slowed, and I felt tension radiating through his body. Not from pain this time, but from something else.
"The games... they weren't just about proving strength." He paused, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper as we passed a group of Welati tanning hides on a wooden frame.
I looked up at him, dread pooling cold in my gut. "What do you mean?"
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the bruised skin.
"The way the elder watched. The way Kragath looked at you.
" His eyes met mine, and I saw fury there, banked but burning like coals waiting to ignite.
"Part of my inclusion in the games was a fight for you, Chloe.
To identify a Welati male who would claim you if the elder decides to have me killed. "
"They were... they were choosing my next—" I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't force the horrifying words past my lips.
"Yes." The single word came out like gravel grinding against stone, sharp and unforgiving. "And I could not allow that."
I understood then. Why he'd fought so viciously. Why he hadn't yielded even when outmatched. Why every punch he threw carried the weight of desperation behind it. It wasn't just about survival or earning respect. It wasn't about proving himself to these people who held our lives in their hands.
He'd put his life on the line for me, had taken blow after blow, had refused to yield even when blood streamed down his face and his legs threatened to give out beneath him.
Even when his opponent had him cornered, when anyone else would have raised their hands in surrender, he kept fighting.
Kept standing. Kept claiming me as his with every drop of blood he spilled.
It was about making sure no one else could take me from him. About drawing a line in the sand so deep and so red that no one would dare cross it.
All for me. Every broken bone, every bruise, every scar he'd carry for the rest of his life—all of it was for me.
My throat tightened, emotion swelling in my chest until I could barely breathe.
"Come on," I said, my voice thick with feelings I couldn't quite name—gratitude, fear, something dangerously close to love.
I slipped under his arm, taking as much of his considerable weight as I could manage. "Let's get you inside."
He leaned on me more heavily than I expected, and alarm bells rang in my head. Every step toward the cottage held a stumble, his breathing growing more labored, more ragged.
I shouldered the door open, my muscles straining as I fought to keep us both upright. The cottage welcomed us with blessed shadows and cool air, such a stark contrast to the brutal sunlight outside that I had to blink away the spots dancing across my vision.
"Just a little further," I whispered, my voice catching on the words. "You're doing so well. Almost there."
His massive frame sagged against me, and my heart lurched into my throat. For one terrifying heartbeat, I thought we'd both go down. I dug deep, tightening my grip around his waist, feeling the scorching heat of his skin along with blood and sweat.
Somehow—through sheer stubborn will—we made it to the sleeping platform.
I eased him down as gently as I could, but even my careful movements couldn't hide his pain.
He moved like a man made of glass, each shift deliberate and agonizingly slow.
His muscles tensed beneath my trembling hands as he lowered himself onto the furs.
Everything about him screamed agony—the rigid line of his spine, the way his shoulders drew up tight, the white-knuckled fists clenched at his sides.
Sweat beaded across his forehead, catching the dim light like scattered diamonds.
His breathing came in short, controlled bursts through flared nostrils, each one a battle won.
When he finally settled back, his jaw clenched so hard I feared his teeth might crack.
His eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second before he forced them open again, as if even that small surrender to pain was too much to allow.
My warrior. My stubborn, beautiful warrior.
I dropped to my knees beside him, my hands shaking so badly I had to press them against my thighs.
Blood had turned his leather vest into a canvas of violence—a spreading crimson stain bloomed near his ribs, another painted his shoulder, smaller spots scattered across his torso like fallen stars.
The way he breathed—shallow and careful, each inhale stopping short as if the air itself caused him pain—told me everything I needed to know.
Broken ribs. At least one. Probably more.
"Let me see," I murmured, reaching for him with hands that felt too small, too inadequate for this task.
He shifted, and a groan tore from his throat—raw and unguarded, the sound of a man who'd reached the end of his endurance. It shattered something inside me.
"Shit," I breathed, my hands hovering uselessly over his battered body. "Your ribs are definitely broken."
I scrambled through my memories, desperately searching for my first aid training from the Bureau, from the Navy before that.
What did you do for broken ribs? Don't wrap them too tight—something about pneumonia, wasn't it?
Or had that been debunked? God, why hadn't I paid better attention during those training sessions?
"I need supplies," I said, the words tumbling out in a rush of panic. "Medical supplies. Something to clean these wounds, bandages—"
I spun toward the door, my pulse thundering in my ears. We were stranded in an alien village with alien medicine and alien customs, and the male who'd just bled for me—fought for me, nearly died for me—was broken and bleeding, and I had no idea how to fix him.
My fist connected with the doorframe before I'd even made the conscious decision to move, the sound echoing through the quiet like a war drum.
"Hey!" I shouted into the village beyond, fear transforming into fury. "I need medical supplies! Healing supplies!" I pounded the wood until my knuckles ached. "Hey! Can anyone hear me?"
A guard materialized from the shadows, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and amusement. "Of course we can hear you, human. You are very loud."
"Then bring me some medical supplies!" I snarled, past caring about diplomacy or respect or whatever the hell these people expected from me. "Now!"
He tilted his head, studying me with those bottomless onyx eyes. Something flickered across his face—recognition, perhaps, or respect—before he gave a slight nod. "They will bring supplies in a moment."
A moment. That could mean seconds or hours in this place.
I glanced back at Nansar, sprawled across the furs like a fallen god, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, pained movements that made my own lungs ache in sympathy.
I couldn't just stand here. Couldn't just wait.
I turned back to the doorway and resumed my assault, adding the stomp of my foot against the packed earth for good measure. "Hurry up!" The words ripped from my throat, raw with desperation. "He's hurt!"
The warrior had already vanished back into the crowd, but I didn't care. I kept pounding, kept making noise, kept demanding attention until finally—finally—a female Welati appeared, gliding toward the cottage with a wooden tray balanced in her graceful hands.
She ducked through the doorway, and I immediately stepped aside. My eyes locked onto the tray, and my stomach dropped.