Page 116 of Wings of Ash & Flame
When her limbs could no longer hold the weapons without shaking, she sheathed the daggers and headed back toward her dorm. Her steps echoed through the deserted hallways.
Past Magique Moderna, she rounded a corner and spotted a familiar figure moving slowly—almost painfully—down the corridor.
“Dawson?” Alaire called, quickening her stride. “What happened?”
He turned, eyes bulging.
“Did you not hear me?”
He shook his head, then flinched.
Alaire stepped closer. There was no hiding the blood seeping through his shirt or the way he favored his left side.
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeated, eyes narrowing at his state. “You’re bleeding, Knox. What did you do, get in a fight with a wild animal?”
He turned away, continuing his slow trek. “Something like that.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” Alaire stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what happened.”
“Just leave it alone, Alaire.” His tone was clipped.
“Not going to happen,” she shot back. “You’re injured, and I’m not leaving you to bleed all over the place. Let me help you.”
“I don’t want your help,” he snapped.
She knew that tone. Recognized the defensive strike meant to cut deep enough to drive her away. She’d perfected the same technique herself. A flicker of something vulnerable flashed in his eyes, there and gone, making her pause.
“You’re beyond impossible,” she muttered, exasperated.
He lifted his chin.
“Fine. Be cryptic and broody. Don’t tell me what happened. Per usual. Regardless of your piss-poor attitude, you’re still going to the infirmary.”
“I can’t,” Dawson said quickly.
“Why not?” Alaire crossed her arms, studying him.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted. But even she could see the lie. Whatever had happened, he needed to keep it private.
“Where’s Caius?” she asked, shifting tactics.
“He had something to take care of.” His jaw tightened.
“Convenient,” Alaire said dryly, stepping aside to give him room. “So you’re just going to bleed out in the hallway, then?”
“I’ll be fine.” But his pallor and the blood soaking his shirt said otherwise.
Walking past her, he braced a hand against the wall, long fingers flexing against the stone. The muscles in his shoulders bunched with each step.
He was suffering.
Her chest felt like it was caving in. Guilt still lingered from their last encounter. She’d promised herself she would do better—be better.
Watching him retreat, the memory of his words—Every. Damn. Day.—echoed in her mind.
The sight of him, trying so damn hard to look unaffected while clearly in pain, made her stomach clench. She exhaled, frustration warring with concern. No matter where she stood with Dawson, he’d never done anything to harm her—annoy her, sure—but he didn’t deserve this. She couldn’t just leave him.
