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“You’re awake,” he says in a voice filled with gravel.
This must be one of the men I’ve heard while I was bleeding to death.
“You’re stating the obvious,” I say.
My breath hitches when he takes a step toward me. I stumble back and hit my shoulder on the door frame leading to the bathroom. Pain sears down my arm, but I ignore it.
“My name is Valdus,” he starts again and lifts his arms up with a grind of gears. Under rolled-up sleeves, two mechanical arms with metal skin glint under the first touches of the rising sun.
The newcomer’s brown eyes travel down my arm and to the trickle of blood dripping from my fingers. He takes another step, but no matter how harmless he wants to appear, I know who he is. A rebel ruthless enough to steal a daughter of the emperor, dragging her half-way across the desert. A man who keeps me under a lock and key as if I was a bargaining chip in his fight with my father.
I stumble back, struggling to take another breath. Memories of everything that happened on the train cling to my skin, cloud my vision. I grab the bathtub, leaving bloody imprints on its crackled enamel, and I’m not sure how long it will be until the darkness comes again. I can already feel it. Waiting. Prowling.
“By Evanae.” Valdus’s voice brings me back to the house at the edge of the desert. “Don’t move.”
As if I had anywhere to go, I want to scream. A nervous giggle is the only thing that comes out as he dashes out of my field of vision.
I tiptoe back to the room, but the door is closed again. I peel the wet sleeve down my arm and tear the bandage off. The wound is angry-red, a stream of blood flowing freely down my arm, and I have to lean on the nightstand as my knees wobble below me. I grab a towel and press it hard on the wound, just in time for the sound of hurried steps to reach me through the door. Muffled voices follow.
I don’t have time or strength to pull the shirt back up over the simple tank top before the door opens. A woman crosses the threshold with her hands raised high. Valdus hovers behind her, his gaze drawn to the blood seeping between my fingers.
“I’m here to help you,” says the woman.
My gaze shoots between her and the man with metal arms, and I pull away as she tries to close the last of the distance between us.
The woman’s smile wavers for a moment, and she clears her throat. “I’m Inara. That is my son Valdus. We are only trying to keep you safe, daughter of Our— “
“Don’t call me that,” I say, stumbling back as my gaze darts between Valdus with a knotted brow and Inara, her hands still high in the air. “What do you mean to keep me safe?”
Inara glances over her shoulder. “Valdus, leave us, please.”
The man opens his mouth but thinks better of it.
“Let me have a look,” Inara asks when the door is closed again.
“You’re the one who dug out the bullet?”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered. You were delirious.”
She motions at the bed, and I sit down, uncurling my fingers from the bandage. A few groans escape my lips when the woman brings a wet towel to the wound. The sharp smell of pure alcohol burns my nostrils, stings my wound until I want to howl, and I know, at least Inara isn’t lying about helping me.
“Thank you,” I hiss between bitten out whimpers.
She offers me a small nod and picks up a curved needle with a thin thread. “A few stitches tore. Can you hold still, or do you want me to call Valdus?”
“I’ll stay put.”
Pain shoots through my arm in its own kind of torture, but I bite my lip until I can taste blood and distract myself by committing Inara’s features to memory. Big curls falling down past her shoulders. Caramel eyes, lined with kohl. A little birthmark high up on her left cheekbone.
When Inara ties a fresh bandage over the wound, I can’t hide a wince, but it’s only when she puts all the tools back on a small tray that she speaks again. “Your father…our emperor is searching for you, but a man asked us to keep you safe.”
Inara takes a folded note from a pocket of her simple black kaftan and puts it on the table next to the tray with fruit and water Valdus has brought earlier.
“There are some clean shirts in the cupboard in the bathroom, even a few kaftans.” She climbs to her feet, her fingers rubbing the swirling flowers on the battered tray in her hands. “I know this isn’t a perfect situation, but it’s better that no one knows a lost princess is a visitor to our home.”
She closes the door behind her, but I don’t wait for the lock to slide back in place to snatch the note.
I don’t know where this letter will find you. These people won’t tell me a thing.
