Page 120 of The Prison Healer

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but it was clear Jaren wasn’t lying. It also explained why he wouldn’t take poppymilk or any other addictive drug. He’d seen what they could do when used incorrectly. He’d felt the effects. He lived with the scars.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he got in first.

“Please,” he rasped out. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t look at me like I’m broken.”

Kiva didn’t think he was broken. After everything she’d learned about him, she thought he just might be one of the strongest people she knew.

And that terrified her.

“Come on,” she said, rising to her feet and holding out her hand. “We should get going.”

Jaren stared at her fingers as if they would bite.

“You’re not saying anything,” he said.

“I just said something,” Kiva returned. “I said we should—”

“About my mother. My scars.”

Kiva looked down at him. “Do you want me to say something?” she asked. “Do you want me to tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through that? That I can’t imagine how hard it must have been? That I think it’s incredible you can separate the drug from the user and still care about your mother enough to want to protect her?”

Jaren’s throat bobbed.

Kiva moved her hand closer to him, and this time he took it, allowing her to help him painfully to his feet. He swayed and tried to get his balance, her arms automatically coming around him to help steady him as she continued, “I can tell you all that, but I think you already know. Or at least, I hope you do.” She paused, but made herself finish, “I can also tell you that if she isn’t already getting help, then you need to get it for her.”

Jaren’s hands had come to rest on her waist as he’d tried to get his feet under him, but at Kiva’s words, even though she’d just begun to pull away, he drew her back again, curling his arms tightly around her back, until he was embracing her fully.

“Thank you,” he said in her ear, his voice rough with emotion.

She wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for—whether it was her lack of pity that he’d so feared, or her encouragement to get his mother the help she needed. Either way, her heart was beating almost out of her chest at his proximity, at how good it felt to be in his arms, even while she warred over everything she still knew about him, about herself.

But still, she allowed herself that moment. That one, single moment in time, melting into him and closing her eyes, wrapping her arms around him in turn.

And then she remembered his wounds.

He hadn’t uttered any sound of pain, but she knew the embrace had to be hurting him—not just his back, but his cracked ribs too, with how tightly he held her. So she gently pushed back out of his hold, looking him in the eyes and asking, “Better?”

He offered a shy smile. “Better.”

“Good,” she said, with a perfunctory nod, as if her heart weren’t still pumping triple time. “Now, what were you saying before? About Rooke making a mistake sending you down here?”

“Ah, that,” Jaren said, rubbing his jaw and looking uncomfortable, but Kiva knew it wasn’t because of the moment they’d just shared.Hedidn’t seem to have any problem showering her with affection. But then again, he was a prince. He was probably used to women falling at his feet. She wrinkled her nose at the thought, and it distracted him enough that he deviated from what he’d been about to say, instead asking, “What was that look for?”

Kiva wasn’t about to admit what she’d been thinking, so she thought quickly and said, “I just realized I don’t know what to call you. Jaren? Deverick? I’m unsure of the protocol here.”

This time, it was Jaren who wrinkled his nose. “I hate the name Deverick. I always have. My middle name is Jaren—that’s what my friends and family call me.” Pointedly, he said, “That’s what you call me, too.”

“Not Prince Jaren?” Kiva asked.

“No, just Jaren.”

“What about Your Highness?”

He pulled a face. “Definitely not.”

“Your Grace?”

“I’m not a duke.”

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