The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(18)

She turned his hand so that his palm faced upward, grimacing when she saw the bloodied blisters and broken calluses.

“Nice, huh?” Jaren said. “Some of the guards think we’re slacking off underground, so at least these offer irrevocable proof that I’m working.” He wiggled his fingers.

Kiva stopped his movement by trailing a sponge of salty water over his hand, prompting him to curse quietly at the sting.

“You need to keep these clean, or they’ll get infected,” she told him, mercilessly scrubbing away the dirt.

“You know as well as I do how impossible that is,” he returned.

Kiva didn’t argue.

Once she was done cleaning both his hands and slathering them in ballico sap, she said, “Take off your shirt and lie down.”

“I’m flattered, but we barely know each other.”

Kiva’s gaze jerked up to his face. His features may have been smeared with dust and lined with exhaustion, but his blue-gold eyes were dancing.

She leaned in close and hissed, “You can take this seriously, or you can leave.” She pointed to the door. “I’m sure Tipp will be happy to remove your stitches back in the cell block.”

“But Tipp doesn’t have your delightful people skills,” Jaren replied with a grin, grabbing the hem of his tunic and pulling it over his head before promptly lying on the bench.

Kiva noted the differences in his body with a professional eye. The bruising on his abdomen had faded significantly, now only a slight greenish-yellow tinge remaining. He’d lost a little weight, but that was expected. His muscle mass was still good, perhaps even greater than when he’d first arrived, especially in his arms and torso, but again, that was normal, given his arduous work allocation.

“What’s the verdict, prison healer? Am I dying today?”

Kiva stopped her examination only to find his gaze on her. While she hadn’t been admiring him in any way, warmth crept into her cheeks, as if she’d been caught ogling him. Appalled by her unfounded reaction, she answered, “The day’s not over yet.”

His abdominal muscles rippled as he chuckled, and Kiva gritted her teeth, reaching for her supplies.

“Hold still,” she said as she began to cut away the stitches. The wounds had healed perfectly, and she cleaned them as she went, leaving behind healthy pink flesh.

When she was done with Jaren’s front and asked him to turn over onto his stomach, he hesitated. Kiva guessed it was in reaction to the scars on his back, but she’d already seen those. Jaren seemed to remember this and did as she’d asked, though with noticeable reluctance.

Unable to curb her curiosity, while Kiva snipped away at the stitches she’d placed on his right shoulder blade, she commented, “I see a lot of scars, but these ones are interesting.”

She brushed a finger over one of the welts, and Jaren tensed beneath her.

Kiva knew it was none of her business, and yet she couldn’t keep from asking, “What caused them?”

The silence that fell was so heavy that Kiva was sure Jaren wasn’t going to answer. But he surprised her when he finally said, “Belt buckles, mostly. Some are from fingernails, one or two from a wooden cane or a broken vase. I think one’s even from the spine of a book. Whatever was in easy reach at the time.”

Kiva’s hands froze. “You mean— Did someone—”

“You see a lot of scars, remember?” Jaren interrupted. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked.”

Kiva didn’t know what to say, so she continued snipping at the stitches, moving on to the next wound. Yes, she saw plenty of scars, but the ones similar to Jaren’s were always from a whip of some kind, as punishment for errant behavior. Even Kiva had three lines of scars on her back from a lashing she’d received during her early years at Zalindov—the first and only time she’d refused to carve someone’s flesh. What Jaren was saying, though . . . it sounded like . . .

“Was it someone close to you?” Kiva asked quietly.

A long exhalation before he answered, “Yes.”

Kiva could feel the tightness of his body, and she knew he wouldn’t be answering anything else. He’d already said more than she would have if their positions were reversed.

“Well, you can now add a few new scars to your list,” she said, infusing lightness into her voice as she smeared ballico sap over the raw skin. “You can sit up again.”

Jaren did so, swinging his legs over the metal bench. His face was closed, his gaze downcast, as if desperate to avoid eye contact after what he’d just admitted. He didn’t make a move for his tunic, and Kiva didn’t want him to think she was uncomfortable with his state of undress, so she said nothing other than, “Lucky last,” as she pointed to the cut on his head.

It was strange, doing this with him sitting upright. She realized that she should have kept him lying down for it, but she had no valid reason to make the request now other than that she felt odd standing so close to him.

“Has this wound caused you any discomfort?” Kiva asked as she cleaned away the tunnel dust. “Headaches, nausea, memory problems, sight issues?”

“The first two days were unpleasant, but the pain eased after that,” Jaren said. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not an idiot. I would’ve come back if I was worried about anything.”