The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(122)

So that no one ever finds out, Kiva said dutifully.

That’s right, sweetheart, Faran said, kissing her cheek. You have to stop. You can’t risk it, not in here. Not even for me.

But—

I mean it, Kiva. Promise me, Faran said firmly. Promise me that, as long as you’re in here, no matter what, no matter who, you’ll never, ever do it again.

And so Kiva had promised.

Even when she’d feared her father had become sick like so many others, even when he’d died, she had kept her promise.

But she couldn’t keep that promise any longer.

It might have been over ten years, but her blood had been calling to her that whole time, waiting, waiting, waiting. She was untrained, untested when it came to wounds as serious as this, but desperation guided her to focus on Tipp’s fading heartbeat, on his gaping stomach, on the life that was swiftly leaving him.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she concentrated harder than ever before, praying that she could do for Tipp what she’d longed to do for her brother by the river all those years ago. If only she’d been able to place her hands on Kerrin—all she’d needed was a moment, a single touch before his heart had stopped, and it would have changed everything. “Please.”

That was all it took.

Golden light poured from Kiva’s fingertips, seeping into Tipp’s chest, flooding along his torso, sealing his flesh, inch by painful inch.

It was working—it was working.

His heartbeat was growing stronger, beat after beat after beat.

And then—

He sucked in a breath, his chest expanding.

Kiva wept openly, keeping her hands in place, willing that golden light to keep healing, to keep sealing. She was nearly there, only a few more inches to go and he’d be completely—

“KIVA!”





Chapter Thirty-Three


Kiva lurched backwards, her hands flying from Tipp as she whipped her head toward the door, the golden light disappearing a fraction of a second before Jaren came stumbling into the infirmary, Naari at his heels. The guard was splattered with blood, her eyes wild as she took in the mess, her gaze flying around the room before landing on Tilda, then finding Kiva and Tipp on the floor.

“Kiva!” Jaren cried again, seeing her at the same time as the guard. The two of them rushed over, Jaren heedless of his own pain as he stared in horror at the young boy surrounded by a sea of red.

“He’s all right,” Kiva rasped. “It’s Tilda’s blood. He just has a small cut on his stomach, and a bump to the head. He’ll be fine.”

She had no idea how the lies were pouring from her so easily. All she could think of was her father’s warnings and the promise she’d made him. She’d already broken that promise, but she knew better than to let anyone know, least of all her present company.

“Can he be moved?” Naari asked.

Kiva’s shaking hands traveled down to Tipp’s stomach, checking the damage. The smallest of cuts remained—he wouldn’t even need a stitch. Kiva nearly sobbed anew, but instead, she croaked out, “Yes. He just needs to sleep it off.”

That part wasn’t a lie. Tipp needed a good, long, healing sleep. And once he awakened, Kiva would have to convince him that his wound hadn’t been as bad as it had seemed. Tipp would believe her. He had no reason not to.

“Good,” Naari said, glancing back at the door with clear unease. “This place is turning into a death zone. We need to leave. Right now.”

Jaren held his hand out for Kiva, and she took it, too stunned by all that had just happened—and was now happening—to remember his injuries. He uttered only the slightest of pained sounds and immediately steadied her when her legs nearly gave out, the trauma of what she’d just gone through wreaking havoc with her body. Exhaustion threatened to topple her; the strain of what she’d done was unlike anything she’d ever known. But even so, when Jaren reached down to collect Tipp, Kiva stayed him with a hand on his arm.

“I’ll take him,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Jaren warned.

“I’ll take him,” Kiva repeated firmly, knowing that Jaren’s adrenaline might be keeping him standing, but there was no way his injuries would allow him to carry the boy. Plus, Kiva needed to feel Tipp in her arms and the life beating within him, if only to reassure herself that he was still alive.

Unlike Tilda.

Kiva couldn’t look at the woman, not even when she saw Naari and Jaren glance between her and the Rebel Queen with pitying expressions, both knowing how much she’d given to protect Tilda. If only Kiva could have arrived sooner, she might have been able to do for her what she’d done for Tipp. But not even she had the power to bring back the dead.

It was too late for Tilda.

It wasn’t too late for Tipp, nor for Jaren, Naari, and Kiva herself.

But it would be, if they didn’t get out of Zalindov before the chaos escalated.

“Hurry,” Naari urged, glancing at the door again.

Kiva didn’t need to be told twice, and pulled Tipp up into her arms. Jaren was right about his weight, and she grunted and stumbled a little, but then steadied herself and looked at the guard.

“Follow me,” Naari said, moving swiftly toward the door, her two swords bloodied and held defensively before her, the prince’s Golden Shield ready to give her life if it meant protecting him. Protecting all of them.