The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(69)

The Healer Whore.

That’s what everyone thought she was.

They were wrong.

The Heartless Carver—she wasn’t that, either. Though right now she wished she was, if only it would take away everything she was feeling.

Kiva wasn’t sure how long she lay there shaking beneath her thin blanket and holding her bruised wrist protectively to her chest before she heard the quiet footsteps, before she felt the tender hand on her shoulder followed by the pallet depressing as someone lowered themselves onto it at her back.

She didn’t jump; she knew who it was. The scent of fresh earth and sea spray and something else unique to Jaren, like morning dew mixed with wood smoke, preceded him, wafting soothingly against her nostrils, bringing a comfort she couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Naari told me what happened,” he whispered, knowing she was awake, thanks to the trembles still racking her frame. “Are you all right?”

Kiva shook her head. It was too dark for him to see, only a thin sliver of moonlight creeping in from the small, square windows dotted sporadically along the long walls, but he could feel the movement. His hand moved from her shoulder, trailing down her arm, until he carefully wrapped his fingers around her sore wrist. Kiva didn’t ask how he knew which one it was—it was all she could do not to start sobbing when he cradled it gently, so very gently in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Kiva,” he whispered.

A tear slipped out of her eye. Then another.

“I’m fine,” she made herself say. Her voice was rough, painful to her own ears. “I’m really fine.”

His thumb stroked feather-light against her skin. “It’s all right not to be.”

Kiva swallowed. Then swallowed again. But the lump in her throat wouldn’t dissolve. And the tears in her eyes wouldn’t stop falling.

She didn’t resist when Jaren lay down on the pallet and turned her to face him, pulling her into his arms. She knew she should send him away, but she couldn’t summon the will, instead burrowing deeper into his chest as he held her close, his tunic muffling her sobs and soaking up her tears.

It was only when she’d cried her last that sleep finally found her, and she drifted off wrapped in Jaren’s embrace, feeling safe and protected for the first time in years.





Chapter Twenty


“How are you feeling?”

Kiva looked up the next morning to see Jaren walking across the infirmary toward her. In this light, she could see that his face was still a palette of colors, but the swelling around his eye had almost disappeared.

“What are you doing here?” she all but squeaked. “Shouldn’t you be in the tunnels?” Panicked, she pointed to the doorway he’d just stepped through, noting with no small amount of relief that it was unguarded. “You need to leave before someone catches you.”

Jaren had the audacity to chuckle. “Relax, Kiva.”

“Relax? Relax?”

“That was perhaps a poor choice of word, given everything,” he said, stepping close enough to place his hands on her shoulders. “How about this one instead: breathe.”

Kiva tried to do as he said, inhaling as deeply as she could, her shoulders rising and falling, with his hands never leaving them. She didn’t shake him off, finding his touch more comforting than she should have liked.

Especially after last night.

They hadn’t spoken of it, even after they’d woken up tangled in each other.

Kiva had felt a momentary burst of alarm coupled with extreme mortification, but Jaren had simply rubbed sleep from his eyes and slurred, “G’mornin’,” before asking—more articulately—how she was. Her garbled, unintelligible response had left him laughing softly, which had annoyed her enough to glare at him.

“If you can look at me like that,” he’d said, grinning, “then I know you’re going to be all right.” Then he’d brushed his fingers down her cheek and left for the bathing chambers.

That was it. No awkwardness, no embarrassment, no bringing up what had happened the previous night—before or after he’d joined her in bed.

It was clear he was letting her come to terms with it—all of it—without pushing. And for that, she was grateful.

She’d spent the morning compartmentalizing the previous day, from Tilda’s near death, to her revelation in the garden about her father and the stomach sickness, to what she’d overheard in the refectory, and finally her run-in with the guards. Mulling over it all, Kiva had been left knowing one thing: she’d survived ten years at Zalindov. Ten years. Yesterday had been rough, but she’d suffered through worse, even from the guards. At least this time there was no physical damage aside from the bruise blossoming on her wrist.

Kiva was alive, that was what mattered most. And it was also what made her realize that there was no point in dwelling on what had happened. It was over, and all she wanted was to let it go and move on.

She’d had a moment of weakness with Jaren last night—or perhaps strength, depending on perspective. He’d given her what she’d needed, when she’d needed it. And she was thankful. So thankful. Even now, he was here with her again, offering comfort once more, not because of what she’d been through yesterday, but because of what she was facing today.

The second Trial.