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Her free hand stroked dark locks off his sweaty brow. “I’m here,” she breathed, blinking rapidly as she tried to banish her tears. “I’m right here.”
A boot scuffed behind her.
Tyrell.
Grayson’s pained gaze snapped over her shoulder, and she felt his entire body tense, preparing to spring. To attack the one who tortured him, or shield her as he always had? She honestly wasn’t sure.
She tightened her hold on him. “Don’t move.”
He stilled, though tension still thrummed through his bunched muscles. His sharp gaze didn’t leave Tyrell.
Mia looked over her shoulder, following Grayson’s stare.
Tyrell stood there, the thick leather gloves that had protected his skin from that accursed powder dangling from one hand. His dark hair—so like Grayson’s—was also falling across his brow, casting his eyes in shadow. His expression was locked, but his shoulders were low. “What can I do?” he asked her.
There were so many things she wanted to say. She wanted a physician for Grayson, though she knew he couldn’t bring one. She wanted Grayson moved to his room—that also wouldn’t happen. She wanted to hit Tyrell. Scream at him.
She thought, in this moment, he would let her.
“Leave,” she said, her voice cracking.
A muscle jumped in Tyrell’s cheek.
She hated what he’d just done. Hated that he’d hurt Grayson so deeply—so permanently. Even still, a voice deep inside whispered that he’d had no choice. None of them did. Not here.
Grayson’s stiffness mounted. Mia squeezed her eyes shut. “Please, Tyrell,” she begged. “Go.”
Silence. Then a whisper of sound as Tyrell left.
When the door closed and locked behind him, Mia opened her eyes and twisted back to Grayson. He was watching her, his body shaking.
She didn’t look at the burn. She wouldn’t—not when he was staring at her like that. She knew how self-conscious he was of his scars.
He didn’t speak. She doubted he’d be able to without horrible pain. Even from the corner of her eye, she could see the ruined skin along his jaw was mottled, covered in blisters that bubbled across the deep cut.
She wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know how. She didn’t dare move him, even to cradle his head in her lap. She couldn’t bear the thought of causing him any further pain. All she could do was twine her fingers through his and hold on.
Time passed. She didn’t know how much. She stroked his hair and squeezed his hand. She pressed close to his body, so he would know he wasn’t alone.
Eventually, Grayson shifted, and she helped roll him onto his back so he could be more comfortable. Even those careful movements made him flinch. He sucked in a breath when he turned his head. And even though he clenched his teeth, his nostrils flared and his gray eyes flooded with misery. Moisture had leaked from his eyes, and she brushed the tears before they could dash down his cheek and fall into the raw wound.
She couldn’t take away his hurt. She couldn’t even ease it. She could do nothing but hold his hand until eventually his ragged breathing turned less sharp, and finally his rigid body slumped in sleep. She could tell the rest was not deep, but it was a reprieve.
With Grayson unconscious, she finally studied the damage to his face.
The burn was on his right side, swollen and angry. It followed the cut his father had given him. That slice went deep, hitting bone, and it spanned nearly the entire length of his jaw—from below his ear, almost to the point of his chin. The blisters that mottled the edges of the cut made it clear that Tyrell had rubbed the powder into it, making the wound larger, the damage deeper. The redness of the burn spilled over onto his cheek, and a little under his neck—places the powder had touched. Those places, she thought, would heal in time, like the burn marks on his fingers from years ago. But his jaw . . . Would it ever heal? Would he even have feeling along the worst of the burn? Would he be able to fully smile?
Fresh tears clouded her vision, and she forced herself to stop. He was alive. That’s what mattered. Everything would always be all right, as long as Grayson still breathed.
The night dragged on in horrible silence. Grayson slept.
Mia did not.
If Henri had wanted them dead last night, there was nothing either of them could have done. If he’d given Tyrell a knife instead of the powder, Mia would have had no choice but to watch Grayson die.
She had lost nearly everything in her life, but Grayson was the one thing she knew she couldn’t survive losing. They had to leave. No matter the risk, they had to escape.
Grayson had said a boat was waiting for them at Porynth. From studying her maps, she knew where the port city was. It would take them about three weeks to get there, and Grayson had said the ship wouldn’t wait much beyond that.
