The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(103)

It wasn’t the Butcher.

It wasn’t even Bones.

Just another guard, someone Kiva didn’t recognize.

She knew better than to feel relief, especially when that guard barked, “Come, healer. Your presence is required.”

Kiva’s legs were quaking as she followed the man out of her cell and down a dark stone hallway. There were more metal doors spaced along it, and she was sure she heard crying and moaning as she passed by some of them. Was Jaren behind one? Was he hurt?

The air smelled of fear—blood, sweat, vomit, and other waste. Bile rose in Kiva’s throat, but she forced it down and breathed through her mouth, blocking her ears to the cries.

“In here,” the guard said, his hand clutching her shoulder, as if to keep her from running.

He opened a door, this one wooden, and they stepped into the room beyond.

It was larger than the cell she’d just left, enough for a number of people to move around comfortably. The walls were still thick stone, and the floor sloped downward slightly toward a small drain in the center of the room, into which fresh blood was slowly flowing.

. . . Blood that came from Jaren, who was tied to a flogging post, his head bowed, his back a mess of deep, red slashes.

“No,” Kiva gasped, her knees buckling. Only the guard’s tight grip kept her from falling.

Jaren made the smallest of movements at her voice, as if trying to lift his head, but his strength gave out before he could manage it.

“Good, you’re here.”

Kiva turned woodenly to the man holding the whip. The Butcher’s pale eyes were glowing with sadistic delight, a smirk stretching across his ruddy face as he rolled the cat-o’-nine-tails in his hands.

“You’re just in time for the best part,” he continued, moving slowly toward Jaren.

“No, please,” Kiva begged, lunging forward. She only made it one step before her guard yanked her backwards, wrapping his other arm around her middle from behind.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he whispered in her ear, his breath like rotten fish. “You stay here. Best seat in the house.”

“Don’t worry, healer,” the Butcher called to her. “We’re just having some fun. You’ll enjoy it, I swear.”

And without any other warning, he drew back his arm and then flung it forward, the cat-o’-nine-tails swinging through the air . . . and lashing into Jaren’s flesh.

His body jerked violently, a moan leaving him, before he slumped against the post, it being the only thing that held him up.

Tears pooled in Kiva’s eyes and then flowed from them as the Butcher drew his arm back again.

“Don’t!” Kiva shouted, her voice breaking halfway through the word. “Stop!”

But the Butcher didn’t listen.

“STOP!” Kiva screamed when his whip flew through the air a second time. “STOP! PLEASE! STOP!”

She screamed at him over and over, but he was deaf to her pleas as he struck his whip into Jaren’s back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Desperate, Kiva fought the guard holding her, wrestling in his arms to get away, to get to Jaren. But it was no use—he was too strong, his grip too tight, and she was forced to watch as the Butcher continued his torture, turning? Jaren’s flesh into a pulpy mess of lash marks.

Kiva was sobbing openly by the time the Butcher finally stepped back, her voice raw from screaming at him to stop.

And then he turned his pale eyes on her.

She didn’t have any room left in her to feel afraid as he strode over, his skin and clothes sprayed with Jaren’s blood, the whip dripping at his side. All she felt was rage. And fear. But not for herself—for Jaren, who was still tied to the post, unmoving.

“He’s fine. He’ll heal,” the Butcher said dismissively as he approached. “Rooke said to make him feel it, but no permanent damage.”

He looked disappointed, just when Kiva thought she couldn’t feel any more disgust.

She stared down at the whip, unable to stand the sight of the Butcher’s red-splattered face. Drip, drip, drip. She watched Jaren’s blood dribble onto the ground, nausea roiling within her.

The Butcher chuckled, reaching out to clasp Kiva’s chin, the painful clench of his fingers forcing her to look at him.

“Don’t worry, healer. Rooke said you’re not to be touched.” A dark grin lit his face. “He figured you’d be punished more by having to watch.” He used his other hand to wipe a tear from her cheek, his grin widening when she tried to jerk away from him, his fingers at her chin tightening. “Looks like he was right.” He chuckled again, before his gaze flicked to the guard behind her. “Keep an eye on her friend. If he moves . . .” The Butcher handed over the bloodied whip, and the guard took it, nodding eagerly.

Kiva didn’t have any words left, any screams left, as the Butcher released her chin, only to latch on to her shoulder and force her to turn around. She couldn’t summon any relief that she wasn’t to be flogged next, because Rooke had been right about her punishment—watching was worse. Her purpose in life was to heal people, not hurt them. And there Jaren was, suffering not only because of her, but also instead of her.

“Move, healer,” the Butcher ordered, shoving her toward the door.

She stumbled along with him, walking in a daze, unable to conceive what she was meant to do, how she was meant to feel, since her mind just kept replaying the whip striking? Jaren over and over again.