23. Bloodied Hands
Bloodied Hands
T he bathwater had gone tepid before the thought struck me.
Corbyn is hurt.
Sitting up straight, I gripped the sides of the copper tub.
I’d been so caught up in myself that I’d completely forgotten the jagged slash I saw on him.
The best healer in the realm—according to Lenn—had been standing right in front of me and I hadn’t even bothered to ask her to check on him. Damn my useless mind.
Water rolled off me in sheets as I pulled myself out of the basin. I dried myself off as I walked into my bedchamber, seeing the nightgown Siva laid out for me. Rest… Yes, sleep would do me good, but…
What is it? the Shadow asked.
My heart skipped a beat. Corbyn. He got hurt.
She made no response but waited for me to continue. Patient, like a nursemaid with a child learning to read.
He would have gone to a healer, wouldn’t he?
I cannot say, Vor. Talons don’t often get hurt badly enough to warrant the attention of one. She paused a moment. I don’t remember seeing his wound myself.
It was bad, I insisted.
Then…
My fingers trembled where they clutched my towel. It was worrying that the dragons hadn’t returned yet. And that jagged cut across Corbyn’s stomach… how would it transfer once he Shifted back? If he needed help, would he even be comfortable seeking it out?
After everything I’d put him through in the last few weeks, I couldn’t imagine he’d want much to do with anyone here in the Citadel. Guilt gnawed at me. If he didn’t get help, it would be my fault. If he… died…
I’m going to check on him, I blurted, the need washing over me like a tidal wave. Make sure he doesn’t need a healer.
The Shadow hummed and gave something of a slow nod.
Very well, then let’s go.
Ignoring the nightgown, I fished a pair of simple white pants and a black, open-collar tunic out of my wardrobe and quickly dressed.
In the hall, the frantic din still echoed from the East Wing.
But I headed down the corridor ahead, further into the West Wing.
The dragons had their own chambers down here, though I’d never had reason to visit before.
It felt strange to go there now. A different primal call than the one that infiltrated my mind at the Southern Gate—an instinct I couldn’t stop.
The corridor took a sharp right and rose up a gradual incline, the expansive garden below coming into view out the windows. I hurried along, my wet hair stringing down my back. After a few more steps, I caught sight of the two figures in the corridor, setting my pulse racing.
“Easy there, Arlbright,” Trygg said, his rough voice carrying down the stone hall. He had his arm wrapped around Corbyn’s shoulder, supporting his weight. He was stumbling heavily, and his head hung low over his chest.
The prince steered him to an open doorway, and I rushed to catch up before they disappeared into the room. “Trygg,” I called, “what’s happened?”
His head turned sharply at the sound of his name, silver-gray eyes widening a fraction. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and hefted Corbyn’s weight further up his side.
“He’s been badly wounded, Your Majesty,” the prince replied, pushing into the room as I followed them.
Corbyn let out a pitiful moan when Trygg laid him on the bed, clutching at his stomach and the blood-soaked linen of his shirt. I drew in a sharp breath at the sight of so much red seeping through the white fabric, staining his hands.
“Gods above and below,” I whispered, grasping at my own tunic. “What happened?”
Trygg knelt beside his kinsman and took hold of the neck of his shirt, ripping it in two.
The fabric parted easily beneath his capable hands, revealing the grievous wound marring Corbyn’s abdomen.
I gasped as I took in the slash stretching from one hip to the other interrupting the sharp lines of his muscles.
It leaked dark, crimson blood, wisps of steam rising as it flowed beneath the waistband of his pants.
Dirt and grime coated his chest and stomach, and every breath seemed labored.
He groaned sharply as Trygg pressed a tentative hand over the wound. “Fuck’s sake,” Corbyn hissed through clenched teeth. “I’d like to keep my guts where they are, thank you.”
The prince’s dark hair hung in his eyes as he bent over his kinsman, inspecting the gash. “You’re lucky they’re even still on the inside, mate.” His tone sounded laid-back, but Trygg looked over at me, and the worry was evident on his face. He stood, moving to the corridor and beckoning me along.
I took another glance at Corbyn before following, my heart dipping at the pain on his face. Trygg stood against the far wall with his hands braced on his hips and dark brows furrowed low over his eyes.
When I came to a stop across from him, he said, “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Will he heal on his own?” A wound like that would have killed a man. I couldn’t fathom how Corbyn survived.
Trygg glanced up beneath thick, dark lashes. His answer was slow to come. “I don’t know.”
I looked over where Corbyn writhed in pain, blood-stained fingers dragging up his chest. My heart jumped at the sight, and I turned back to Trygg.
“Find Lenn,” I ordered. “Tell him I need Helene to attend to Corbyn immediately. I’ll stay with him.”
His lips quirked slightly. “Yes, my lady,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ll return shortly.” He stepped forward, brushing my shoulder as he passed. I ignored the heat that flared through my arm and walked back into Corbyn’s room.
On a low table in the corner sat a basin of water and a clean cloth. I retrieved them and pulled a small, wooden stool to the side of the bed, plopping down onto it. His eyes were closed, but Corbyn stirred at the weight of my hip pressing against the mattress.
“You know I heard all that, right?” he said, his voice strained.
I looked up at him, dipping the cloth in the basin. “And?”
“And I don’t need a healer.” He drew in a ragged breath. “Give me a few days to heal on my own. I’ll be fine.”
I wrung the cloth and placed the basin at my feet. “As your prince said, you're lucky to be alive. I’d feel better if Helene at least looked at you.”
I swept the cloth over his stomach, focusing on the edges of the wound as I cleared away some of the blood.
He winced away from the touch, arm shooting out with frightening speed.
His rough hand clamped down on my newly healed wrist. When I looked up, he was watching me with his unnerving, burning gaze.
“That hurts,” he rasped, relaxing his grip infinitesimally.
Shivers rippled over my skin. I drew my hand back, breaking his hold with the slightest effort. “Apologies,” I muttered, “I don’t have the gentlest hand. That’s why I asked Trygg to fetch an actual healer.”
He pressed his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes once more and releasing a long breath. The planes of his chest deflated, drawing my gaze. The memory of them beneath my fingers, clearly defined and hard as?—
No… No, that was only a dream. It wasn’t real. And nothing I imagined I felt was real either .
Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the hideous wound, pressing the cloth along the edge once more. Corbyn groaned but didn’t reach to stop me again, though the grimace on his face told me he still wasn’t happy about my interference. I swallowed down the lump that rose in my throat.
“How…” I hesitated, every thought in my head bouncing between the dream and almost dying at the hands of the draugr and Trygg saving my life.
“Hmm?” he grunted, quirking an eyebrow.
“How did this happen?”
It took him a moment to answer. “The Eastern Market. There were people trapped there. A group of the creatures flanked me and took a chunk before I could press them back.”
Ice clawed at my throat, seeping into my chest. Corbyn had been hurt doing as I’d asked—protecting my people from certain death. After everything I’d said and done.
I cleared my throat, forcing past my shame. “Thank you, Corbyn.” My voice petered out, his name nothing more than a whisper.
He turned his face to look at me fully, dark red hair splayed on his pillow. “You asked us to protect them… I did my duty.”
My heart skipped at his words, tugging at something buried deep within.
“Yes, I did ask that of you,” I conceded.
“It was enough to fly overhead and clear the streets. Putting yourself in harm’s way to defend people you cannot claim as kith or kin is something entirely different.
It may be your duty to do as I ask, but it is not your duty to care about them… or about me.”
Whether I meant to or not, I’d shifted the conversation.
We’d still yet to talk about that night Lukas stormed out of my room, hurling accusations at both Corbyn and me.
Now wasn’t exactly the best time, but the words spilled out of me all the same.
I couldn’t stop them any more than I could stop the frantic pounding of my heart.
His gaze remained steady, cutting through me. “No, I suppose it is not. Nevertheless, I do.”
All the air rushed from my chest. We definitely weren’t talking about the myrkva attack anymore.
I dragged a shaky breath into my burning lungs. “So, it’s true then?” I asked, silently cursing the way my voice quivered. Everything Lukas said that night came rushing back. And I had to wonder if the way Corbyn looked at me now was what Lukas claimed he’d seen.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I stiffened. “Yes, it does.” How could he say that?
He grimaced again, squeezing his eyes shut and curling against the pain.
His hands went to his stomach and braced against the taut muscles above the wound.
A sheet of blood poured from the cut, making me gasp.
I rushed to press the cloth against it. He fell back against the pillow with a pained cry.
Pity coursed through me, but I had to maintain the compression. He’d lost too much blood already.