There’s another dab to my knuckles, and I feel Gun’s gaze flick across my face.
“That hurt?”
“A little.”
I hear the words rasped in my voice, but barely feel them leave my lips. As though all my feelings, all my emotions,everythingjust … slipped away.
He gives a small grunt, then, “There’s something in there. Try not to scream while I dig it out.”
I think he’s jesting, but I can’t find it in myself to smile or even peel my eyes from the painting.
I’m still dressed in my gown and cloak, refusing to part with for fear of exposing that vile mark on my shoulder. A thick, fluffy towel is draped over me to soak up some of the wet—the extra weight making the tender nub on my clavicle throb.
There’s a light knock on the door, and Captain mumbles a curt “come in” while digging through my flesh with a pair of tweezers.
The man who answered when I first arrived breezes in with a steaming mug in one hand and a clay bowl in the other that he sets on the rug beside Gun.
“Did you send the sprite?”
Sprite?
“You think so little of my attention span that you think I’d lose sight of my task only moments after you dished it?” Gun stills, glaring over his shoulder at the man who swiftly throws him a wink. “Captain.”
Another grunt, and Gun gets back to digging between my knuckles while the other man offers me a steaming mug of something that smells like vanilla-and-cinnamon cocoa.
My hand tightens around my broken chain.
“I’m Enry.” He offers a warm smile that reaches his eyes. “It’s nice to formally meet you.”
“Same to you,” I say, pulling my injured hand from Gun to take the mug, setting it down on a small table beside the overstuffed upholstered chair I’m seated in. “Thank you.”
He moves toward the couch on the opposite side of the room where he sets a laden basket on his knees, busying his hands peeling garlic bulbs.
“You … sent a sprite?” My voice croaks with the question, heart heavy with the thought that it might have gone to Cainon.
That he could already be on his way here.
“To my sister,” Gun rumbles, and I breathe a sigh of relief, even as he pries a sharp splinter of wood from where it was lodged in the dip between my knuckles. He drops it into the bowl of water, rinsing his cotton before dabbing at my wounds again. “Hopefully she’ll soon be over with a change of clothes.”
I nod, lifting my stare back to the family portrait.
Family.
Something inside me twists.
“What happened, Orlaith?”
Long moments drip by while he continues to dab. I don’t let my stare drift from the painting. Don’t even blink.
What happened …
Her.
Them.
Me.
I want to scream it. But I want to hide it more.
