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Haleika began flirting with Galen as soon as we were inside the halls. She grabbed his arm, hung on his every word, and laughed and smiled so genuinely even I started to believe she was completely in love with Galen.
The halls were overcrowded with novices and apprentices, plus the bastards of Ka Kormac, moving slowly, their voices loud. I kept my hood up, blending into the crowd of soturi surrounding me. Most were discussing plans to meet in the city for drinks.
I weaved through the rounded halls unseen, breaking apart from the crowd, keeping my hood up until I reached our training room. Rhyan sat slumped on the floor, his head tilted against the wall, a blood-soaked cloth over his face.
“Hey,” I said, closing the door behind me. He didn’t move or respond. I was by his side instantly, sinking to my knees. “Let me look at that for you.”
His jaw worked, his throat moving, as he turned his head away from me. It broke my heart.
“It’s okay,” I said gently, keeping my hands to myself. I knew how important it was for him to feel in control. “I’m going to help you.”
He sucked in a shaky breath, turning his head ever so slightly toward me and opening his right eye, which was swollen and bloodshot. “I meant to come meet you,” he said roughly. “I need to get you home.”
“Forget about that. We need to take care of you first.”
He scoffed, but the sound was weak, like he barely had any energy. “I’m your guard tonight,” he said, his voice low and scratchy and hardly more than a whisper.
“I thought you had the morning shift.”
“Had to switch….” He trailed off, too tired to finish. One hand lifted as if to explain and then fell back against his knee. “Other plans this morning.”
“Rhyan,” I sighed. “Forget it. You’re off duty. Taking care of you right now is more important. How about you give me five minutes to be your bodyguard?”
He made a noise low in his throat. “You haven’t applied for the position.”
“I doubt that’s necessary,” I said, trying to keep the banter going, knowing he needed it to distract himself from the pain. But seeing him like this, seeing what Brockton had done to him, was slicing through my heart.
“And your qualifications to be a bodyguard?” He lifted his good eyebrow.
I gave him my most patronizing look. “I know how to hold a protective stance, and in less than thirty seconds, I can contort my face to look very serious and grumpy.” I spoke in an exaggerated northern lilt.
A small smile barely crossed his lips before it faded, and he closed his eyes. “Partner, do whatever you want to me. But a formal evaluation of the grumpiness of your face is coming.” He still sounded exhausted, but at least he was engaging with me.
“I’d expect nothing less,” I said. “Let me see. Please. I promise I’ll be gentle.”
“Okay.”
I pulled the cloth from his hand to reveal the left side of his face.
His eyes were on mine instantly, his mouth tight and his body still. I let out a shuddering breath, trying to stay calm, trying not to make him feel any worse. But there were bite marks all around his eye. Fucking bite marks. His scar was irritated, raised, and shining in a sickly pink. Blotchy red skin, bruised and bleeding, spread from his forehead to his cheekbone. I wanted to kill Brockton.
“That bad?” he joked. “Doesn’t matter. That side was already mangled from my father. He said after he gave it to me, ‘Now the outside matches what’s within.’” Rhyan deepened his voice to match his father’s, then laughed. “What’s a few more scars?”
“Your father’s the one that gave this to you?” I asked, horrified. No wonder he hated the scar so much.
“Mmmhmm. The night my mother….” he trailed off again, his eyes squeezing shut, his nose scrunching like he was trying to hold back some emotion. I squeezed his arm, my hand sliding down to his. Our fingers entwined, our palms pressing together.
I knew what he couldn’t say. His father had scarred him the night his mother died.
“I’m going to kill him,” I said.
“Which him?” Rhyan asked.
“Both,” I snarled. “Brockton and your father.” I wanted to kill anyone who had ever laid a finger on Rhyan. I wanted to rip those fingers from their hands one by one, to crush all the bones in their hands and arms.
“I’d like to be there for that,” he said, but there was none of the usual snark in his voice, just bone-weary exhaustion. Even his aura felt stagnant, its usual coolness barely leaving his body. “You get first punch. I’ll take second.”
I released his hand and reached into his opened bag to grab a fresh towel. Using his water bottle to splash clean water onto it, I sopped up what remained of the blood on his face. When I was satisfied he was cleaned, I peered down at the bites, knowing I needed to clean out any bacteria that might have gotten in there, especially from Brockton’s disgusting mouth.
