Page 17 of The Prison Healer

Jaren groaned slightly as he eased himself onto the nearest metal bench, and while Kiva showed no outward reaction, she winced internally, aware of just how hard the tunnelers were made to work. She was surprised Jaren hadn’t come to see her before now to stock up on painkillers and anti-inflammatories. At the very least, a muscle relaxant would have helped, especially during his first few days as he acclimatized to the labor.

“Any problems I should know about?” Kiva asked as she approached. “Itching, swelling, redness?”

Jaren looked amused. “Shouldn’t you have checked in before now to ask about all that?”

“I’m not your mother,” Kiva said. “You’re responsible for your own health in here.”

“There’s that bedside manner again,” Jaren said under his breath.

Kiva acted like she didn’t hear and reached for his left hand. His skin was filthy, highlighting that he’d come straight from the tunnels after his shift had ended. Dirt and grime covered him from head to toe, almost as much as when he’d first arrived at Zalindov, though without the addition of blood this time.

“This has healed well,” Kiva said, inspecting the carved symbol. It had scabbed over, one of the slashed lines already having peeled away to reveal a fresh pink scar beneath.

She turned his hand so that his palm faced upward, grimacing when she saw the bloodied blisters and broken calluses.

“Nice, huh?” Jaren said. “Some of the guards think we’re slacking off underground, so at least these offer irrevocable proof that I’m working.” He wiggled his fingers.

Kiva stopped his movement by trailing a sponge of salty water over his hand, prompting him to curse quietly at the sting.

“You need to keep these clean, or they’ll get infected,” she told him, mercilessly scrubbing away the dirt.

“You know as well as I do how impossible that is,” he returned.

Kiva didn’t argue.

Once she was done cleaning both his hands and slathering them in ballico sap, she said, “Take off your shirt and lie down.”

“I’m flattered, but we barely know each other.”

Kiva’s gaze jerked up to his face. His features may have been smeared with dust and lined with exhaustion, but his blue-gold eyes were dancing.

She leaned in close and hissed, “You can take this seriously, or you can leave.” She pointed to the door. “I’m sure Tipp will be happy to remove your stitches back in the cell block.”

“But Tipp doesn’t have your delightful people skills,” Jaren replied with a grin, grabbing the hem of his tunic and pulling it over his head before promptly lying on the bench.

Kiva noted the differences in his body with a professional eye. The bruising on his abdomen had faded significantly, now only a slight greenish-yellow tinge remaining. He’d lost a little weight, but that was expected. His muscle mass was still good, perhaps even greater than when he’d first arrived, especially in his arms and torso, but again, that was normal, given his arduous work allocation.

“What’s the verdict, prison healer? Am I dying today?”

Kiva stopped her examination only to find his gaze on her. While she hadn’t been admiring him in any way, warmth crept into her cheeks, as if she’d been caught ogling him. Appalled by her unfounded reaction, she answered, “The day’s not over yet.”

His abdominal muscles rippled as he chuckled, and Kiva gritted her teeth, reaching for her supplies.

“Hold still,” she said as she began to cut away the stitches. The wounds had healed perfectly, and she cleaned them as she went, leaving behind healthy pink flesh.

When she was done with Jaren’s front and asked him to turn over onto his stomach, he hesitated. Kiva guessed it was in reaction to the scars on his back, but she’d already seen those. Jaren seemed to remember this and did as she’d asked, though with noticeable reluctance.

Unable to curb her curiosity, while Kiva snipped away at the stitches she’d placed on his right shoulder blade, she commented, “I see a lot of scars, but these ones are interesting.”

She brushed a finger over one of the welts, and Jaren tensed beneath her.

Kiva knew it was none of her business, and yet she couldn’t keep from asking, “What caused them?”

The silence that fell was so heavy that Kiva was sure Jaren wasn’t going to answer. But he surprised her when he finally said, “Belt buckles, mostly. Some are from fingernails, one or two from a wooden cane or a broken vase. I think one’s even from the spine of a book. Whatever was in easy reach at the time.”

Kiva’s hands froze. “You mean— Did someone—”

“You see a lot of scars, remember?” Jaren interrupted. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked.”

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