The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(44)

Jaren’s tension dissolved, and his eyes finally lightened, as if he too realized just how preposterous such a circumstance would be.

“I still d-don’t understand,” Tipp said, the emotion in his voice tugging at Kiva’s heart. She’d become distracted, seeking to keep Jaren—and Naari—from scrutinizing her motives, forgetting the reason she’d dragged them all over to Tilda’s side and the explanation she’d intended to offer, misleading as it was.

Turning to the young boy, Kiva said, “I asked what you think when you look at Tilda. You see a woman, Rebel Queen or otherwise. But I look at her and see someone who is deathly ill and needs my help.” Kiva returned her gaze to the bed, continuing to provide the only justification Tipp would accept, with him having known her long enough to see it as truth. “She represents everyone I’ve tried to save over the years. Everyone I’ve failed to save over the years. It’s not just one life to me—it’s all of them, and they all matter.”

She unconsciously rubbed her thigh, but then froze, willing her hand into stillness. Neither Jaren nor Tipp noticed, but Naari was watching her carefully enough that Kiva swallowed and avoided her observant eyes.

“So you see,” she went on, “I might not be able to keep everyone alive, but this woman? This patient?” She shrugged carefully. “It was in my power to do something, so I did.” She offered what she hoped was a self-deprecating smile. “Now we just have to wait and see if it’ll make a difference.”

Kiva wasn’t lying. She believed and meant everything she’d said. But she couldn’t tell them everything, couldn’t share the real reasons why she had claimed Tilda’s sentence—and not just because Naari was listening. Trust wasn’t something Kiva offered easily, especially in a place like Zalindov.

“So . . . you’re saying you v-v-volunteered because she’s sick?” Tipp asked, his young face puzzled. At least the tears were gone.

Jaren and Naari looked skeptical, as if they knew there had to be more to it than what Kiva had said, but she avoided their eyes, determined to stick to her story.

“She would have died today,” Kiva said. “And I know it’s irrational, that it’s just the way of life, especially here, but I’m so tired of people dying on my watch. So, yes, Tipp. If I can save her life, or even just delay her death, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

Especially if it meant they could both walk free.

The young boy sucked his lower lip between his teeth, gnawing on it as he considered her words. Finally, he said, “Then I guess we should t-t-try harder to get her feeling better. That way she c-can thank you herself.”

Relief swept over Kiva, and it only grew stronger when Tipp sent her a gap-toothed grin, tremulous as it was. She reached out to take his hand again, holding it tightly as she said, just for him, “I’m going to do everything I can not to leave you, do you understand? I promised your mother, and I keep my promises. We’re in this together, you and me.”

Kiva prayed that Rooke would agree to what she planned on asking him, even if it would only be valid in the worst-case scenario of her having to endure all three of the remaining Ordeals. According to the law, they were to be held fortnightly, so she had two weeks before the next one. If her family and the rebels failed to arrive before then, then she was on her own—and if she didn’t succeed, her death would leave Tipp abandoned.

Looking to Jaren, Kiva found his eyes already on her. She didn’t shy away from his gaze, but instead tried to communicate everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling. If she died, she needed to know that someone would look out for Tipp, for as long as possible.

Jaren, to his credit, didn’t fight her silent communication. His lips tightened, and his expression intensified, as if willing her not to even consider her own demise, but when she continued looking at him calmly, pointedly, he blew out a breath and gave a terse nod of acceptance. Of agreement.

Feeling slightly unsettled that they’d just had a conversation without words, Kiva tore her eyes from him and leaned forward to place the back of her hand on Tilda’s brow. Her fever hadn’t returned, but she was restless, moaning in her sleep.

“Any change today?” she asked, unable to keep from transitioning back into healer mode.

“Not with h-her,” Tipp said. There was a hesitant note to his voice, and Kiva glanced up at him as he continued, “but the p-patients with the stomach v-virus are getting worse. And it’s still spreading. The guards d-d-dragged in three more while you were sleeping.”

Sleeping was a very kind word for Kiva’s state of unconsciousness. She turned toward the quarantine door, wondering if she had the strength to go and check on the sick prisoners herself.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Kiva swiveled back to Jaren, noting his set features, and she pulled a face.

“Scrunch your nose at me all you want, but you’re going straight back to bed,” he told her.

True to his threat, he wrapped his arm around her again and gently eased her up to her feet. This time she bit her tongue to keep from moaning, but the look Jaren sent her made it clear that he knew she was muting her pain.

The shuffle back to her pallet was more agonizing than she remembered the walk to Tilda being, and while she would never admit it, Jaren was right—there was no way she’d be able to stand long enough to look in on the sick patients.