Page 27 of The Prison Healer

“Shut it, healer whore,” a cold voice hissed into her ear. “Scream again, and you’ll regret it.”

Kiva stopped struggling, recognizing the voice. The moment she did, the arms released her, and Kiva stumbled away from her captor—Cresta, the leader of the prison rebels.

“Uh-uh, not so fast,” Cresta said, her tone threatening enough to halt Kiva in her tracks. “You and I need to have a chat.”

Trembling all over—and not just from the cold water pebbling her skin—Kiva straightened to her full height. Heedless of her nakedness, she placed her hands on her hips and demanded, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Cresta tossed her red hair over her shoulder, the matted twists no longer hiding the full outline of the serpent tattoo coiling down the left side of her face. “I told you, we need to talk.”

Kiva weighed up her options before realizing she had none. Cresta was a quarrier, one of the rare exceptions who had arrived as a teenager and lived longer than anticipated, having survived Zalindov for five years so far. With arms as thick as Kiva’s thighs and the rest of her body rippling with muscle, the young woman was built like a bull—and she acted like one, too. Other prisoners might be too exhausted to cause much trouble, but Cresta reveled in it, actively going out of her way to whisper rumors and start fights. Almost all of the riots that had transpired in the last five years had been incited by her, though she was smart enough to make sure someone else always took the blame. Just as she was smart enough to keep from being outed as the leader of Zalindov’s rebels. While it wasassumedshe held that position, there was no evidence, nothing the guards could act on.

Warden Rooke needed information. If Kiva played her cards right, maybe Cresta would slip up and give something away, something Kiva could use to continue proving her worth as an informant.

“Talk about what?” Kiva asked, her trembles turning to full-body shakes in the freezing air.

“For pity’s sake, put your clothes on,” Cresta said, sneering. “I don’t need to see”—she waved her hand and pulled a face—“all that.”

Kiva bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that Cresta could have wrestled herbeforeshe’d entered the shower, or evenaftershe was done, but she didn’t want to risk angering the woman. If it came to a physical fight, Cresta would win, with ease.

Quickly dressing, Kiva felt only slightly more comfortable as she turned back to the quarrier. She opened her mouth to demand an answer, but Cresta beat her to it.

“Word around the prison is that the Rebel Queen is here, and that she’s sick.”

Kiva said nothing, unsurprised that Cresta knew. She had almost as many spies as the Warden.

“I want to make you a trade,” the young woman continued.

Kiva kept her face blank, though she couldn’t deny that she was curious. What did Cresta want? And what did she think it was worth to Kiva?

“You’re going to save Tilda Corentine’s life,” Cresta stated. “You’re going to make sure she stays alive long enough to be rescued. And in return, I won’t kill that boy you’re so fond of. The one with the stutter. Tipp, isn’t it?”

All the breath left Kiva. “What?” she whispered.

“You heard me,” Cresta said, her hazel eyes flashing. “Save the Rebel Queen, and you save the boy. If she dies, he dies.”

Before Kiva could begin to calm her panicking mind, the shower block’s luminium beacon fizzled and popped, enveloping her in darkness. It sparked to life again mere seconds later, but by the time it did, Cresta was gone.

“What I don’t understand is why she thinks she needs to bargain with you,” Warden Rooke said, peering at Kiva from across his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin.

After her run-in with Cresta, Kiva had headed straight to the southern wall and told the guards on duty that she needed to speak with the Warden. Despite it being the middle of the night, Rooke was still awake and working in his office, his polished perfection at odds with her rumpled, damp, and shaking self.

“You’re already under orders to get Tilda Corentine healthy enough for the Trial by Ordeal. Why would Cresta think you need more motivation?” Rooke asked. His expression turned pensive as he continued, “Unless she doesn’t know about the Trials. We haven’t announced them yet, but I’d assumed word had begun to spread, regardless.” A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Perhaps the prison rebels aren’t as informed as they would like to think.”

“Whatever her reasons, it doesn’t matter,” Kiva said, sitting on the edge of her seat, a solid weight of anxiety balling in her stomach. “She threatened Tipp’s life. You need to let him leave.”

Rooke’s dark brows arched up toward his hairline. “Excuse me?”

It took everything within Kiva to push aside her trepidation and say, “He’s only here because he was with his mother when she was caught. He was eight years old at the time, just a boy. He’sstilljust a boy. He doesn’t deserve this life.”

Neither did Kiva, having arrived a year younger than Tipp, but she’d long since given up trying to talk her own way free of Zalindov.

The Warden made an impatient sound. “We’ve already discussed this. Multiple times. My answer remains the same—as long as he has no guardian to claim him, he’s considered a ward of Zalindov. He can go free, but only if someone comes to collect him.”

“But he’sinnocent,” Kiva said, leaning forward, barely managing to remain in her seat. “And now Cresta wants to use him against me.”

“Many in here are innocent,” Rooke said dismissively. “If you do your job, Cresta won’t have a reason to harm him. For once, she and I are in agreement on something. Fancy that.”

Kiva wondered if she’d ever hated the Warden more than in that moment.

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