Page 4 of The Rising Wave

He must have been freezing on the cold stone floor, because he used his arms to pull himself onto the blanket with what looked like a massive effort.

She felt the quick, hard knock of her heart when his face turned a strange gray color, and he collapsed.

She crouched next to him, touching his shoulder, but he was no longer conscious. His skin was hot to the touch, and smooth under her fingers.

His hair was dark—a true black—and cut in the same short style as the Kassian soldiers. His chest was heavy with muscle, and she stared at the dark hair that arrowed down a flat, ridged stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.

He was magnificent, but now was not an appropriate time to admire him.

“Are you all right?” She rocked his shoulder, trying to rouse him, but she barely moved him.

And of course he wasn't all right.

She heard Banyon's shuffling step approach and curled around her knees, eyes closed tight shut.

She needed more time to decide!

She turned toward the door, and her knee knocked Luc's bruised shoulder. He gave a quiet groan in his sleep.

Stricken, she opened her eyes and rose up, standing with feet apart. Her escape plan hung over the door, waiting.

She stayed where she was as Banyon peered through the bars to check he could see her, and then rattled the keys as he opened up.

He only opened the door a little way, and swung the bucket of water in with a thump.

Then he left it open a crack as he shuffled away and then back.

He extended a jug and a plate and Ava hopped over Luc to take them, standing in the opening he'd created and looking him directly in the face.

“Thank you, warden.”

His rheumy eyes were leaking at the corners, and he had a light sheen of sweat on his face from carrying the bucket. “Share with the prisoner. They want him alive. Maybe they'll reward you if you fix 'im up.”

They both knew that would never happen, but she bowed her head in acquiescence.

He peered at her carefully, then pulled the old sheet he had slung over his shoulder off, holding it in front of him like a shield. “This was all I could find.”

Banyon tossed it through the doorway onto Luc, as if by not directly handing it to her, he somehow absolved himself of his kindness. “For bandages,” he said, and then shut the door in her face.

She leaned against the door for a moment, looking up at the stone poised and ready to come down on his head, and felt a tear leak down her cheek.

She straightened, using the back of her hand to brush the moisture away, and pushed down every raging emotion. It would do her no good right now.

She put the plate and jug on the table before she hefted the bucket closer to Luc. The water was cold, but there was a lot of it.

She lifted the sheet to her nose and sniffed. It smelled a little musty, as if it had been in a damp cupboard, but was otherwise clean.

She began ripping long strips off it for bandages and used a few of them to clean the scrapes and slices in his arms and shoulders.

When she got to the very deep cut on his forearm, she sat for a long minute, staring at it.

She had only sewn flesh once before—her own—and though she couldn't see the scar above her eyebrow, her finger traced the spot. Her skin felt smooth there, as if the deep cut had never happened.

She had no mirror, so she didn't know how well it had healed.

She lifted her hands to her head, and then hesitated, looking toward the door.

Too paranoid to continue where she could be observed, she moved to the side of the door, lowering to her haunches. It would be impossible for anyone outside looking in to see her.

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