The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(9)
Swiftly cleaning the wound again—and grateful that the young man kept his eyes closed as she did so—Kiva hovered over him, inspecting the cut, considering how best to stitch it. When Tipp returned with the newly cleaned pail, she quietly instructed him to fetch some fresh clothes and watched him run off again.
Aware that no matter how she closed the wound, it was going to sting, Kiva said, “Try to stay still. This’ll hurt a little.”
The man’s eyes shot open, blue-gold meeting Kiva’s green, causing her to suck in a swift breath. Seconds . . . minutes . . . she wasn’t sure how long had passed until she finally tore her gaze away, focusing anew on his cut. His eyes remained on her face—she could feel him watching her as she pressed the needle into his flesh.
The slightest of winces, that was his only reaction.
Her heart, however . . . It was pumping double time as she began her sutures.
In, out, around, knot.
In, out, around, knot.
In, out, around, knot.
Kiva let the familiar rhythm steady her, aware all the while that the young man was watching her. If that was what it took for him to keep from flinching, then she could deal with her own discomfort.
“Nearly done,” she told him, as she would any of her patients.
“It’s fine.” He paused, then added, “You’re very good at that. I can barely feel it.”
“She’s had p-plenty of practice,” Tipp said, reappearing at her side. Kiva gave a slight jerk, but fortunately she wasn’t in the middle of a stitch.
“Tipp, what’d I say about—”
“Sorry! Sorry!” he said. “I always forget how j-jumpy you are.”
She wasn’t jumpy; she was in the middle of a death prison. That was more than enough of an excuse to be on edge.
“Done,” Kiva said, snipping the last stitch and smearing on the ballico sap. “Help him sit up, Tipp.”
She said the last offhandedly, hoping the boy wouldn’t comment or question why she wasn’t helping the young man rise. In truth, normally she would. But given that her pulse hadn’t quite returned to a resting heart rate after merely locking eyes with him, she figured it was wise to keep as much professional distance between them as possible, and not have her hands on his naked flesh again anytime soon.
“Let me just get you some poppymilk, then you can—”
“No poppymilk.”
The two words from the young man were sharp enough to draw Kiva’s eyes back to his. She frowned and said, “I won’t give you much, just enough to help with the pain. It’ll soothe your head, and”—she waved, indicating the rest of his bruised, cut, and carved body—“everything else.”
“No poppymilk,” he repeated.
Hearing his unyielding tone, Kiva slowly said, “All right, how about some angeldust? I can—”
“No, absolutely not,” he said, his face having paled all over again. “I—I don’t want anything. I’m good. Thank you.”
Kiva studied him, noting the stiffness of his posture, his muscles straining as if preparing for flight. She wondered if something had happened to him under the influence of either remedy, or if perhaps he’d overdosed before. Maybe he knew someone who was addicted. Whatever the reason, short of forcing the drugs into him, she had little choice but to honor his wishes, even knowing it was to his detriment.
“Fine,” Kiva said. “But at least let me give you some pepperoot ash. It won’t take away all the pain, but it’ll help a little.” She paused, thinking. “If we combine that with some hashwillow to ease your nausea and some yellownut to give you an energy boost, then that might be enough to get you through . . . what’s next.”
One golden eyebrow arched, but he didn’t question the end of her statement, nor did he argue her treatment options again. Instead, he gave a short nod, the color slowly returning to his face.
Kiva looked toward Tipp, and the young boy scampered off to collect the ingredients. Pepperoot ash worked well topically when dusted onto wounds, but it could also be ground into a paste and taken orally, targeting pain receptors in the whole body. Kiva had never mixed it with hashwillow and yellownut before, but the smell of the liquified combination had her wrinkling her nose and looking at the young man in question, certain that he’d prefer the nutty-flavored poppymilk or the caramelly angeldust, both of which went down considerably smoother.
In answer, he reached for the stone tumbler without a word, swallowing the concoction in one go.
Kiva noted Tipp’s full-faced grimace, and she struggled to keep her own features from copying him. The young man, however, gave only the slightest of shudders.
“That should, uh, kick in within a few minutes,” Kiva said, taken aback. She gestured to the gray tunic and pants that Tipp had placed at the end of the metal bench. “Those are for you.”
She busied herself by returning the empty tumbler to the workbench as the young man changed, leaving Tipp to help him. When she’d put all the ingredients back in their rightful places and could no longer act like she had something to do with her hands, she turned around to find the man dressed, with everyone watching her, waiting. Naari included.
Looking pointedly at the guard, Kiva said, “Isn’t this where you step in?”
She wasn’t sure what it was about this young man that was getting to her. All her self-preservation instincts were going haywire. She would never have talked to any guard so directly before today. She hadn’t lasted ten years in this place by being reckless.