Page 206 of Stormbreaker

“A story,” I demand. “Now.”

“When did you get so bossy?” he asks as I press my fingers to his skin and squeeze the wound together. He groans, his head twisting to the side.

“Stop being a baby,” I say, and he almost laughs. “Story time. Start talking.”

“Okay,” he breathes as I pierce him with the needle. “I was ten years old, and I was afraid of the dark.”

“You afraid of something? I don’t buy it.”

He chuckles, then inhales a sharp breath as I feed the thread through his skin.

“My mom gave me this flashlight,” he continues. “She told me it had magic powers.”

I smile at the wistfulness in his tone.

“That if I clicked it on and off three times, nothing scary could ever come into my room.”

He grunts as I keep sewing, slowly closing the gap.

“My brothers would have mocked me until the end of time if they knew about it,” he says. “So it was always our little secret. When she’d kiss me good night, she’d always remind me to click it when I needed it. I kept that thing for years, even when I was a teenager. Before I left home, I’d still use it sometimes.”

I swallow thickly as his voice cracks.

Another stitch, and his chest heaves up and down.

“Your mom sounds awesome,” I say.

“She’s the best.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“I know.”

I meet his gaze and offer him a small smile before I study my handiwork. I don’t think it looks very good, but at least it’s closing the wound. Nevertheless, he’s clearly in pain, and I need to keep him distracted.

“You know,” I say as I keep working, “now that I’m living in the Wastes, I do have some expectations.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks. “Like what?”

“I’m not sleeping in the dirt. And I’m not going more than a day without a bath.”

He grimaces as I push the needle in again. “Seems reasonable.”

“And I want dinner served on real plates with silverware. Crystal goblets, too.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“New clothes. A big closet. Weekly hair appointments.”

He groans, inhales a long breath. “Whatever you want, Your Highness.”

Finally, I finish up, tying off the knot. Then I cover the wound with a set of fresh bandages. Rook is flushed, his skin hot. I whisper a curse, hoping infection hasn’t set in.

I find some painkillers and make him take twice the recommended dosage as his eyes drift shut.

“Skies, I feel like shit,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“You are not fucking dying on me, do you hear?” I say. “You owe me answers, and you’re not getting out of this so easily.”