Page 7 of The Prison Healer

She hadn’t heard from her family since the last note, and with winter well and truly under way, she didn’t expect to hear anything until a steady flow of prisoners arrived again come spring. But she still held on to their most recent words, the assurance, the demand, the promise.

Kiva did what she had to—she healed people, but she hurt them, too. All to stay alive. All to bide time until her family could come for her, until she could escape.

This young man ... he was one of the better ones to carve, making her guilt easier to bear. Since he was already unconscious, she didn’t have to look into his pain-filled eyes as her blade dug into his flesh, didn’t have to feel him shaking beneath her touch, didn’t have to see him look at her like the monster she was.

Tipp knew—he’d seen Kiva carve too many prisoners to count, and he never judged her for it or looked at her with anything other than understanding.

The guards didn’t care about her task, they just wanted it done quickly. Naari was no exception, not even when she’d first arrived. However, of all of them, the amber-eyed guard was the only one to ever show a hint of disgust. Even now, her jaw was clenched as Kiva sank her blade into the young man’s flesh, with Naari’s gloved hands pressing his shoulders into the metal slab lest he awaken.

Kiva worked fast, and when she was done, Tipp was ready with the pot of ballico sap and a fresh scrap of linen. As if now satisfied that the new arrival wasn’t at risk of moving and ruining his freshly carved Z, the guard retreated to the door, reclaiming her position without another word.

“It’s a shame about the c-c-cut on his face,” Tipp said, as Kiva finished wrapping the man’s hand and began to make her way around the rest his body, adding sutures to the open wounds as she went and applying the antibacterial sap over the top.

“Why’s that?” Kiva murmured, only half listening.

“It’ll ruin his p-pretty face.”

Kiva’s fingers paused midstitch over the cut she was closing on his right pectoral. “Pretty face or not, he’s still a man, Tipp.”

“So?”

“So,” Kiva said, “most men are pigs.”

There was a loaded silence, the only sound being a quiet huff from Naari at the door—almost as if she wereamused—before Tipp finally said, “I’m a man. I’m not a p-pig.”

“You’re still young,” Kiva returned. “Give it time.”

Tipp snorted, thinking she was joking. Kiva didn’t enlighten him. While shehopedTipp would stay as sweet and caring as he now was, the odds were against him. The only man whom Kiva had ever held any respect for was her beloved father. But ... he was one of a kind.

Not allowing the nostalgia to overwhelm her this time, Kiva quickly and efficiently finished sealing the rest of the cuts on the young man’s abdomen and back, double checking that there were none on his legs before moving to his face.

It was then, just as she lowered her bone needle toward his brow, that his eyes opened.

Chapter Four

Kiva staggered backwards as the young man sat bolt upright. She wasn’t sure which of them was more startled—her, him, Tipp, or the guard.

“What the—” the man started, his gaze moving frantically around the room. “Who— Where—”

“Easy,” Kiva said, raising her hands. His eyes homed in on the bone needle before noting the blood staining her arms—hisblood. The next second, he scrambled off the other side of the metal bench and was backing away like a cornered animal.

Aware that Naari was approaching fast, Kiva spoke again, trying to calm the man before things could escalate. “You’re at Zalindov. You were hurt on the way here. I’ve been”—she motioned helplessly to her bloodied hands—“stitching you back together.”

It was then that the man’s gaze settled on the guard. His eyes were blue, Kiva noted, but there was a gold rim in the center around the pupil. Striking eyes, unlike any she’d seen before.

Striking eyes, in a striking face. There was no denying it now that he was awake. And yet, her words to Tipp remained true: she would not be swooning anytime soon.

Upon seeing the fully armed guard, something in the man seemed to wilt, as if he were finally catching up, realizing where he was and perhaps recallingwhy. He stopped backing away—not that there was anywhere else for him to go, since he was now pressed up against the workbench—and he pivoted from Naari to take in the wide-eyed Tipp, who stood frozen with his mouth hanging open. The man peered down at his own body, noting his lack of clothes and the dressings on his wounds, including the fresh wrappings on his hand. He then, finally, turned back to Kiva, seeming to come to a decision.

“Forgive me,” he said in a calm, smooth voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Kiva blinked. Then blinked again.

“Er, that’s all right,” she replied, feeling unbalanced. Hehadwoken up to her hovering above him with a bloodied needle, after all. It wasshewho had startledhim. “You should sit down again. Let me finish with the cut on your head.”

He touched his brow, wincing when he found the bump, his fingers coming away red with blood. Kiva bit her cheek to keep from scolding him. She’d have to clean it again now, before adding the sutures.

The young man’s face paled, as if his sudden exertion had caught up to him, shock setting in. Kiva lunged forward, as did Tipp, the two of them arriving just in time to grab the new prisoner as his knees buckled.

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