Page 56 of Rok's Captive
The relief of being out of the sun, in this small oasis of relative comfort, is so intense it makes me dizzy. Or maybe that’s the exhaustion, the dehydration, the emotional toll of everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.
Rok’s arms relax, and for a moment I think he’s going to keep holding me, but then he carefully, gently, sets me on my feet. His hands linger at my waist, steadying me, making sure I’m stable before he lets go completely.
I turn to thank him, words finally forming on my lips, but they never make it out. Because the moment his hands leave my waist, Rok crumples to the ground.
“No!” I drop to my knees beside him, hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him, afraid to make his injuries worse. “Rok? ROK!”
His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and rapid. And there is no glow beneath his skin. I’ve come to think of it as normal, that the fact it’s not there has anxiety spiking within me.
“No.” I finally reach out to touch his face. “Don’t you dare die on me. Not after all this. Not after everything.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. Just lies there, each breath a visible struggle.
Panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me, but I force it down. Panic won’t help him. Nothing will help him if I can’t figure out what to do.
I look up, gaze flicking around the chamber, searching for something—anything—that might help. There’s…nothing. Plants, yes, but I’m no herbalist. All that’s here is, well, me…my handbag.
With trembling hands, I dump its contents out again, eyes shifting over my cell phone, the emergency biscuits, the crumpled dollar bills, my water sachet, and the sanitary napkin.
I stare at the pad for a long moment. It’s not much, but it’s the only absorbent material I have. And Rok is still bleeding.
“Better than nothing,” I mutter, tearing open the plastic wrapper.
My breaths come hard and fast as I work, my gaze shifting to Rok every few seconds. He’s still lying there, unmoving, only his chest rising and falling with pressured breaths.
“Come on, Justine. Come on.”
Swallowing hard, I peel back the adhesive strips and separate the pad into its layers, exposing the ultra-absorbent core. It’s not sterile, not by a long shot, but it’s the best I can do.
I shift closer to Rok, getting a better look at his wounds in the soft, diffused light of the cave. What I see gives me a small measure of hope—the smaller cuts and gashes have already started clotting, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. His physiology must be different from humans, his blood clotting faster, his healing more efficient.
But the deeper wounds—particularly a nasty gash across his ribs and another on his upper arm—are still oozing that strange, dark, shimmering blood.
I tear the absorbent pad into strips and press the first one against the worst of the wounds, watching his face for a reaction.
“Does it hurt?” No reaction. No response.
Swallowing down the lump in my throat once more, I apply gentle but firm pressure. The material turns dark almost immediately, soaking up the blood with an efficiency that would be impressive if my heart wasn’t beating so hard.
“Hold on,” I murmur, not sure if he can hear me but needing to fill the silence anyway. “Just hold on. You’re going to be okay.”
After a few minutes, I carefully lift one corner of the makeshift bandage to check underneath. The bleeding seems to have slowed, but not stopped entirely. I press the strip back down, wishing I had more, wishing I had actual medical supplies, wishing I had any idea what I was doing.
My gaze shifts to the water sachet lying on the floor beside me. It’s small—probably like 500 ml—and it’s the last one I have. My last source of hydration in this alien desert.
I stare at it for a long time, biting my lip so hard it hurts. I should save it. I know I should save it. For myself, at the very least—I’m already dehydrated, and without water, I’ll die out here.
But Rok is dying in front of me. Right now.Becausehe saved me. Because he chose to fight those monsters rather than run.
And he could have run. He’s done it before. He’s fast enough. He could have left me and run.
He didn’t.
And maybe I shouldn’t run now either.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, snatching up the water sachet. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
I pop the little cap off and carefully, gently, tilt Rok’s head back. His lips are surprisingly supple, fuller than I’d noticed before, with a tempting curve that makes me pause for a heartbeat too long—definitely not the thoughts I should be having while he’s literally bleeding out. I dribble a tiny amount of water between them, watching anxiously to see if he’ll swallow.
