The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(42)

While Kiva had no intention of telling Tipp about Cresta’s threat to his life, she still wished she could have this conversation alone with the boy. Sending a quick look toward Jaren, he only folded his arms and looked steadily back at her. Naari, too, was watching from just inside the entrance to the infirmary, the guard making no attempt to hide her eavesdropping.

“You’re right, I did tell your mother that I’d look out for you,” Kiva said quietly, taking Tipp’s hand in her own. “And I plan to keep doing that, long after these Trials are over.”

When Tipp turned his face away, Kiva squeezed his fingers to get his attention back, and continued, “Hey, I mean that. I’ve already made it through one Ordeal—how hard can the other three be?” She tried to infuse confidence into her voice, hiding all traces of doubt while also taking care to conceal any hope that she might not have to face the remaining Trials at all.

Stay alive.

Don’t let her die.

We are coming.

“But what then?” Tipp asked. “You’ll b-be free, and I’ll be alone.”

Kiva couldn’t tell him the truth, nor could she tell him about her plan—not yet. Not until she’d spoken with the Warden. Even then, she would remain quiet, for fear of getting Tipp’s hopes up in vain. There was a long road ahead, and Kiva had no guarantees it would end well. For any of them.

Somewhat hoarsely, she said, “That’s not a problem for today, so there’s no point in worrying about it just yet.”

“Then let’s focus on today,” Jaren cut in. “You still haven’t told us why you did what you did.”

Kiva had to count to ten to keep from snapping that it was none of his business and requesting that he leave the infirmary. The truth was, she liked waking up to find him beside her bed. She liked that he was concerned, that he cared enough to be angry. Very few people at Zalindov gave any thought to her welfare—it was always she who was looking after others, not the other way around.

But she’d also meant what she’d said, that he didn’t know her well enough to be so upset. She didn’t understand what was happening between them and wondered if he just felt connected to her because she was the first person he’d met upon waking at Zalindov. It wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner reacted in such a way, even after she’d carved open their flesh. They perceived her as someone familiar during the uneasy transition into their new life. A comfort, almost. But their dependence usually faded after a few weeks, and Kiva rarely interacted with them again unless they had a heath concern—or they turned up dead, and she had to send them to the morgue.

Jaren, however, had already been at Zalindov for nearly three and a half weeks, and showed no signs of disappearing from her life. If anything, it was the opposite, with her seeing more of him as time passed. Part of that was due to the bond he’d formed with Tipp, the younger boy having adopted Jaren, deciding it was his purpose to help the newcomer survive. And Tipp’s connection to Kiva meant Jaren was, by mutual acquaintance, connected to her as well.

But still . . . Kiva was out of her element with this and had no idea how to respond to his request—no, his demand—for answers. While she was touched that he cared, she also dreaded that kind of attention. She’d been at Zalindov long enough to know not to form lasting relationships. Tipp was the only person Kiva allowed even remotely close to her heart, and she was determined to keep it that way.

Nevertheless, seeing the concern on Jaren’s face, the tears still in Tipp’s eyes, even the tight pinch to the listening Naari’s features, Kiva couldn’t muster the antipathy required to keep from answering.

“Help me up, would you?” she asked softly. “I want to show you something.”

While she would have preferred Tipp’s assistance, Jaren was more capable of supporting her, so she pushed aside her pride and allowed him to wrap his arm around her as she rose shakily to her feet.

Kiva couldn’t keep a quiet moan from leaving her lips as bolts of electricity shot up her legs, her very nerves protesting the move. While nothing was broken, it still felt like everything was.

“You all right?” Jaren asked.

She looked at him, realizing how close his face was to hers, his blue-gold eyes right there, and firmly told herself that she’d never live it down if she blushed while in his arms. “I already told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he argued, his forehead creasing. “I don’t need to be a healer to know that much.”

“Then why ask if I’m all right?” Kiva shot back, trying—and failing—to keep her temper in check. When she saw a muscle tick in his cheek, she blew out a breath and said, more patiently, “I fell fifty feet, Jaren, and I’m alive—so I am fine, considering the alternative.” She paused, then grudgingly admitted, “But I still feel like I fell fifty feet, so fine is relative.”

Jaren wrapped his arm more securely around her, pulling her deeper into his body as if to make absolutely sure she wouldn’t hurt herself further. “The prince should have caught you sooner,” he said tightly.

Kiva didn’t ask how he knew, guessing word had spread like wildfire around the prison. She only hoped he didn’t know why the prince had saved her. She didn’t need any more humiliation tonight. “He didn’t have to catch me at all.”