Page 32 of Ship of Smoke and Steel

Meroe stands up, abruptly. “There’s one more.”

“What?”

“Bandage.” She pats her side. “I can’t reach the knot. Can you help?”

“Oh. Sure.” I step back. “Who did these in the first place?”

“Berun,” she says. “I got him to talk to me, a little. He knows a lot about this place.”

“He…”

I pause. Meroe has nimbly undone a set of buttons at the back of her dress, and now she shuffles her arms out of it. It’s still belted, so the top flutters down to hang like an extra layer of skirt, leaving her naked from the waist up. Another bandage runs from under her left arm up around her neck.

She’s not as shapeless as she seemed in that ill-fitting dress. And … toothsome, Ahdron had said. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s not watching. When I turn back to her, she’s looking at me with a curious smile on her face.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She tugs at the bandage, arching her back. “Here.”

I step close to her, untying the knot at her shoulder. Her breath tickles my cheek. When the linen comes free, I peel it off, stopping when it starts to stick to the wound, a long, curved gash under her arm and onto her back.

“Lean forward,” I tell her.

She obeys, and I step behind her and pour more water from the canteen. It trickles across her deep brown skin, and I see muscles tense in her shoulders. When it soaks the injury, she hisses through her teeth.

Her skin is so beautiful, smooth and perfect. I think of the scars on my own body, a hundred little trophies from a hundred little battles. Faded, now. Since I learned to control my Melos armor, I haven’t taken many scars, at least not where it shows. But my hands are still rough and callused, and my bloody history is written on my skin for anyone to see.

Meroe will have at least one scar to match mine, when this wound heals. The thought tugs at me in a way I don’t like, as I rinse the injury and wind a fresh bandage.

“What did Zarun want?” she says, unexpectedly. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t mind.” I shake my head to clear it. “I’m not entirely sure. I think he wants me to work for him—be part of his clade, I suppose it would be.” I pause to tie off the bandage. “He may also want to rut me. I’m not sure how serious he was about that.”

“To—” Meroe looks over her shoulder at me. “Really?”

“Like I said, I don’t understand everything.”

“And you’re … considering his offer?”

“For the moment, I don’t think it matters. The Butcher showed up and the two of them got into it.” I shrug. “If Zarun can help, it won’t be until after this assignment, at least.”

“But if he can help, you’d take it?”

I feel myself flushing a little, and it makes me angry. “The Butcher seems to be trying to get us killed. I’d rather not spend more time under her thumb than I have to.”

“Even if it means crawling into Zarun’s bed?”

“I have rutted far worse men than Zarun,” I tell her, “for far less.”

“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I … didn’t know.”

“Don’t look so rotting shocked.” I turn away from her. “And do your rotting dress up, unless you want the boys to come stare at you with your tits hanging out.”

“Sorry.” There’s a hasty shuffling of cloth.

“Did you need anything else?”

“What?”