The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(79)
Her attempt at humor didn’t ease him at all.
“It’s just . . .” He shifted uncomfortably, like he didn’t know what to say. Or perhaps how to say it.
“What, Jaren?”
He rubbed his neck and avoided her eyes, finally blowing out a breath and saying, “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“Just tell me,” Kiva pressed, both curious and concerned now.
For a long moment, Jaren remained silent, as if debating with himself. But then he inhaled deeply and met her gaze again. “Your scars. On your thighs.” He paused. “I saw them when I was carrying you here. They look a lot like . . .”
He trailed off again, but this time Kiva didn’t prompt him further. Her insides had frozen with his words, her mind locking and unable to form a coherent thought.
“It’s nothing. They’re nothing,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. But her voice was too high, her attempted indifference too obvious.
Jaren’s blue-gold eyes were steady on hers, and this time it was she who looked away, as if fearing he’d drag the answer right up out of her soul.
She cleared her throat, winced at the residual pain, and wished she’d asked for a stronger dose of poppymilk, if only so that it could have knocked her out and kept her from this conversation.
“They didn’t look like nothing,” Jaren said, his voice quiet. Coaxing, but not demanding.
From the careful way he was holding himself and waiting patiently for her response, Kiva knew that if she repeated her answer, he’d let it go and likely never ask again. She opened her mouth to do just that, to keep her secret, but when she tried to lie to him a second time, the words wouldn’t come.
She wasn’t sure if it was just the heady combination of all the remedies now swirling within her, but when she made herself meet Jaren’s eyes again, she wanted to tell him the truth. She’d seen the scars on his back, learned of the abuse he’d sustained in receiving them. His own hidden tapestry, and the story behind it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to share her story, too.
Kiva moved her eyes to the ceiling, unable to look at him while offering such a raw glimpse of her past.
“I was twelve years old the first time I had to carve Zalindov’s symbol into someone’s flesh,” she said, barely audible, as if still deciding whether she wanted to be heard or not. “The Heartless Carver—you’ve heard their name for me. But despite what they think, despite how they see me act, I feel every single one of those marks, on every single person I carve. And I have for five years.”
Jaren shifted toward her, but Kiva didn’t return her gaze to him.
“I don’t do it anymore,” she whispered, one hand unconsciously moving to the blanket over her thigh. “But in the early days . . . I felt too much, and I had no one to talk to about it. Every time I carved someone, I needed an emotional release afterward, I needed to atone,” she said. “So, for every person I carved, I . . . I cut myself, too. Later, of course—when no one was around. No one ever knew.”
She drew in a deep breath and mustered the courage to pull aside the blanket, just enough to reveal the scars on both thighs, the rest of her still covered by Naari’s cloak.
She trailed a finger across the pink lines smudged now with charcoal, their severity having faded over the years since she’d stopped self-harming.
“Looking back, I’m not sure if I was punishing myself for hurting others or if I thought that, by sharing in their pain, I was standing with them, even if they didn’t know, and would never know.” She swallowed. “But when it became an addiction, I knew I had to stop. I recognized the signs once I started craving the pain, the rush of endorphins that broke through the all-consuming numbness I felt. And I knew it wasn’t healthy, knew I wouldn’t be able to help anyone else if I didn’t first help myself.”
She swallowed again. “It wasn’t easy to stop. But I took it one day at a time, one new carving at a time, and eventually the numbness faded, along with the need to hurt myself.” She ran her fingers over her scars again, and admitted, “I still feel the guilt. Every single time. But I also know that the blame isn’t on me, and I think that’s what helps the most. That’s what keeps me from falling back into old habits.” She paused, staring at the faded pink lines before finishing, “Well, that, and focusing on healing everyone who comes to me. I never want to risk not being there for them, for any reason—especially one that’s self-inflicted.”
Kiva had run out of words. She was surprised by just how much she had revealed to Jaren, how she’d bared her wounds to him, quite literally. She still couldn’t look at him, afraid of what she might see on his face, unsure whether it would be pity or understanding or disgust . . . or a combination of all three.
But then he was moving, standing from his seat beside her bed, and she couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking to him as he leaned toward her, closer and closer, until his lips brushed her forehead in a whisper-soft kiss.
“Thank you for trusting me, Kiva,” he told her quietly as he pulled away enough to look into her eyes. “Thank you for sharing.”
His face didn’t show pity, understanding, or disgust, his expression unlike anything Kiva had ever seen from him before. Warmth pooled in her core and a host of butterflies took flight in her stomach as they stared at one another, barely a breath apart.