The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(47)

A new picture on the screen showed two familiar figures shaking hands in the dust from a heloship taking off. I couldn’t help but flinch as the camera zoomed in on Princess Tabitha’s face—a fawning smile was plastered over it. “In the king’s unfortunate absence, Chancellor Dobin has accepted the Matrians’ offer of disaster aid. He is in conferences with Princess Tabitha, the second-in-line for the Matrian throne, to devise an interim leadership plan and humanitarian aid schedule.” The picture changed again, to a grainy image of a flock of Matrian-branded heloships in the air, and the news reporter continued. “Meanwhile, Matrian heloships are now deploying all over the country to fight the fires and offer relief supplies. They’ve generously offered to transport important and influential Patrian citizens from their homes to the palace to protect the fragile Patrian infrastructure from sustaining further damage.”

Hearing Tabitha’s name in the same sentence as the words ‘humanitarian aid’ had filled me with a loathing so profound I’d almost felt nauseous. That woman had intended to cut me to pieces, slowly. Her eyes had filled with joy at the process. There wasn’t a humanitarian bone in her body, and just knowing she was in this country, frankly, terrified me. Despite the walls and the security system, this place didn’t feel safe anymore. I had no doubt that she had a horrible plan for when all those heloships landed.

“As for the terrorist group called ‘The True Daughters of Patrus,’” the man on the screen had reported too cheerily, “the members are still missing. Many of the bombings are suspected of being suicide attacks. The Matrian relief teams assure us that they will surrender any clues they find to aid in the investigation that will bring these heartless women to justice.”

I’d turned the television off, sickened by the lies pouring out of it.

Now, someone cleared their throat behind me, breaking me from my dark thoughts, and I turned in my seat to see Owen standing half in and half out of the main hall, holding a white plastic first aid kit in his hand. I stared at it, taking a deep breath, and then nodded. He wordlessly crossed the room to me, his boots loud despite the deep red carpeting on the floor.

“I figured you still hadn’t looked at that hand,” he said.

I rubbed my left hand over my thigh, my stomach fluttering with apprehension. “There hasn’t really been a good time,” I replied, and he tsked as he sat down, setting the box on the seat.

“That’s a lie,” he stated evenly. He wasn’t upset—he just knew, and for a moment, I hated that he’d seen my weakness.

I looked down at my right hand where it was resting, palm up, in my lap. I’d taken more of the painkillers that we’d brought from the cabin, but even so, the ache had increased in the past few hours. I could see that dried blood saturated the crumbled wad of Viggo’s shirt underneath the black lines of electrical tape holding it all together.

“I… I’m afraid to see it,” I admitted, looking up at Owen to meet his gaze.

His mouth flattened to a thin line, and he nodded. “I would be too,” he said. “But it’s going to get worse if we don’t treat it. We should have done it already, you know. We don’t want you to lose the hand.”

I knew he was right, but I couldn’t stop this terrible fear coursing through me. The pain in my hand fueled it, making visions of my hand being split completely in half feel perfectly real. It pushed aside my memory of seeing the knife only embedded in my palm, and insisted that, somehow, along the way, the cut had worsened. It was a lingering fear that I could taste thick in my throat. It whispered to my subconscious that when Owen pulled apart the bandages, I would see my hand split in two to the wrist. Maimed and mutilated.

I bit my lip and nodded to him, battling to keep the fear at bay. “Do it,” I said.

“Okay,” Owen said, “I’m glad you agree. Let me just bring in our expert… Quinn!”

My jaw slackened. As though he had been waiting for the call, Quinn came running in. He darted around Owen and came to a stop in front of me. I pulled my arm up to my chest, suddenly glad Owen had let me have the earlier part of our conversation in private—and questioning the wisdom of letting a teenage boy inspect my hand.

Quinn was all smiles as he flopped down on the cushioned seat, his dark eyes gleaming. “It’s okay,” he said enthusiastically, and I pulled my arm tighter to my chest, bringing my feet up to the backs of my thighs and creating a barricade with my legs.

“Expert? Are you sure you’re qualified…?” I asked. I didn’t recall anyone ever mentioning that Quinn had medical expertise.

“Violet, I swear! I can do this. Dr. Tierney said that I could even start training to be a real doctor. She said I’m great because I don’t get freaked out when things are really bad.”

“That is not exactly a ringing endorsement,” I said, looking to Owen for support.

Owen shook his head at me. “Don’t worry, Violet. Quinn started learning emergency first aid under Dr. Tierney—he did a good job helping her with Amber when she got shot.”

I took a deep breath, slightly reassured. I was going to have to get this over with one way or another.

Quinn smiled at me, and then flipped open the box, revealing several foil-wrapped packets with various symbols on them, tweezers, scissors, bandages, and a smaller clear plastic box with a portable medical scanner inside. My eyes bulged when I saw it—portable scanners were far too cost-prohibitive for private ownership, but Ashabee had somehow managed to get one.