Page 23 of Entangled

There’s a queasy lump in my throat, but I swallow it down hard and look up at him with as much calm as I can muster.

“I don’t make stupid plans, Mateo, and I have no desire for an early grave. I will do what I can for Alastair.”

He stares into my eyes, and I hold his gaze steadily until, finally, he nods. Relief touches his features, and he ruffles my hair like I’m an unruly sibling. I hate that I want to like him.

But I hate the snake on his hand even more.

I step around him and make my way over to his friend.

I study Alastair’s chest as I kneel beside him and hand off the slick red bandages to Mateo. He takes them away to discard them in the refuse pit south of the camp, but not before shooting a long, uneasy look at Alastair.

Mateo seems especially anxious today, and I can only assume it’s because of Jorge’s death.

And because we both know Alastair will likely follow him in a few days.

The two large burns on Alastair’s torso are... not good. The edges are dark, but slick opaque liquid oozes through the cracks, and there is too much soft, puckered under-flesh exposed. The burns are raw and inflamed and make me feel grateful for my collection of injuries.

This is beyond any herbal medicine I can mix up.

Beau would know what to do, might have the skills to treat this kind of damage, but it’s beyond me. It doesn’t bother me much. If Alastair dies, he dies, and that’s one less Sinner I need to slake my vengeance on.

Still, my freedom hangs on helping him, so I give Alastair amaranth tea and apply a honey salve. I can’t tell if the tea is helping the inflammation at all—it doesn’t seem any better—but at least it doesn’t seem much worse than two days ago, either. And the honey should keep out bacteria and give him a chance to heal.

Ifhe can heal.

When I’ve finally finished carefully applying the salve and dressed him in fresh bandages, I sit back on my heels, ignoring the stings and discomforts of my cuts and sore muscles. I haven’t collected many new injuries in the last few days, at least.

“Thank you.”

The murmured words have me snapping my head up. Alastair is awake—the first time he has been while I’ve tended him. His eyes are seafoam green, steady and inexorable as an undertide, fringed in dark lashes. They’re beautiful.

I hate them.

My chest cramps, thinking of the pretty, sneaky flecks of green in Beau’s hazel eyes, the mirage of colors I could have studied for hours.

Swallowing my bitterness, I begin packing away my supplies and manage to reply, “You’re most welcome.”

“Are you well?” he asks. His voice is low, hoarse, but it’s like hearing shadows shifting in an endless cave. I can’t help but strain to hear more.

But what an absurd question.

“Quite well, thank you.”

His eyes drift over to the other side of camp, where Madison is refusing the water Owen is trying to feed her, clamping her jaw shut as he grabs her chin. A small line appears between Alastair’s brows. I flick my gaze between the two curiously, recalling just how many times Madison has been conveniently rescued by his men.

“She’s a fighter,” I say.

Alastair blinks, then his features harden, and he looks back at me with a dangerous smile. “But not you. Youtendto your enemies. The men who killed your lover.”

My hands pause on the lid of the salve.Which one?I think bitterly. Even knowing he’s trying to bait me, his words feel like needles pressing into my skin, reaching in to pierce the sticky black grief inside me.

But the reminder also prods my demon, and all of my hot, bubbling hate.

Maybe Alastair shouldn’t be so quick to pick at that particular wound—I’m all too aware of the hemlock curled up beside my healing herbs.

I lift my chin and study him.

“Madison isn’t very happy I’m tending to you either,” I prod back.

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