Page 77 of Reckless
“How fortunate.” That earns me a swift backhand to the gut. She steps into the washroom, dragging the chain under the door.
“Sit,” she orders, giving me a stern look before swinging the door partially shut. I obey, sitting in the warped doorframe with wood poking into my back.
I struggle to ignore the sound of damp clothes hitting the floor. So, being the gentleman that I am, I trace the groves in the wood, attempting to occupy my thoughts with anything but her. I pause at the sound of her muttering. “Everything all right in there?”
“Other than the fact that I’m trying to bathe with a chain around my ankle?” She continues her mumbling, momentarily distracted. “I’m going to have to wash these pants with the rest of me, since they’re not coming off anytime soon. I think I have an extra shirt in my pack….”
The sound of sputtering water and creaking pipes drowns out her words. This must be the only inn in all of Dor with running water. Maybe this really is their finest.
I hear her splash into the tub, the action pulling my leg halfway into the washroom. Silence stretches between us, only interrupted by the occasional sound of sloshing water. I lean my head against the inside of the doorframe, listening to her. “I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”
“Yeah, well, the water isn’t exactly w-warm,” she grinds out.
I don’t contemplate my next words before asking them. “Why did you dive back into the sewer for me?”
I can’t see her face, but it’s not difficult to picture the look of surprise that is likely lighting it. “I… I couldn’t let myself take another life.” Her voice grows softer with each word. “I have enough blood on my hands.”
“Your fingertips, maybe. But not your hands,” I say evenly. “Three lives are hardly enough to stain your soul.”
I would know.
“You found the soldier in the desert, then,” she says slowly.
“I did. Though, I figured he deserved it.”
Water sloshes from behind the door. “That’s what I keep telling myself. But it doesn’t seem fair for one to decide their life is worth more than another’s.” I hear her take a shaky breath. “And that is exactly what I did.”
“I know the feeling,” I murmur.
She’s quiet for several, slow heartbeats. “I was on the roof, you know. Watched you find the Imperial I’d killed.”
My breath catches.
Swallowing, I attempt to keep my voice steady. “Really? Then why am I still alive?”
“Because…” A breath. “Because you were going to bury him for me. Just like you had with Sadie in that first Trial. And seeing you kneel there, seeing you carry that man over your shoulder for me despite everything…” She trails off, clearing her throat. “I just couldn’t bring myself to throw that knife.”
I can’t see her face, and a timid part of myself is thankful for it. “You could have been free of me twice now. You know that, don’t you?”
Her voice is small. “I know.”
“Do you regret it?”
My question silences her for several seconds before she whispers, “I’ll regret it in the morning.”
The sound of my words to her in the dungeon has a slight smile tugging at my lips. I shut my eyes, content to let silence stretch between us. It’s not long before she’s standing in the tub, leaving me to listen to the sound of water dripping from her body. “Would you grab the shirt from my pack and throw it in here?”
The idea of refusing is rather tempting, but I reach for her pack instead. I’d already emptied it of the numerous weapons she’d stashed in there, leaving it mostly unoccupied. I dig around until I find a thin, gray shirt wrapped tightly around a worn notebook.
Pulling both out, I untangle the swaddled journal before thumbing through the tattered pages. “What’s this book in here?” I ask as I toss the shirt through the cracked door.
She’s standing right outside the door now, her shadow painting thefloor beside me. “It was my father’s. Mostly filled with the work and theories of a Healer.”
I can hear the hurt in her voice, however hard she tries to hide it. And I hate that I’m the cause of it. When I can’t find my voice, she speaks instead. “Yeah, I saved it from the house you burnt to the ground.”
She says it lightly, as though unaffected by the event. “About that,” I start, running a hand through my hair.
“Don’t say you’re sorry. Please.” When she speaks next, her voice is soft, delicate. “It’s easier that way.”
