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Setting the cloth to his arm, I feel his muscles harden beneath the fabric, as I rub small circles across his skin, careful to avoid his new stitches. I make my way down to his hands, and the grime washes away to expose a warm bronze. When I turn his palm over, gliding the cloth over his callouses, I can’t help but notice the way his big roughened hands lie so gentle in mine. I glance up to find him staring down at me, the weight of his eyes a distraction to my cleaning, and quickly look away, cheeks tingling with warmth. Sponge bathing is nothing new for me, as I often washed patients who were bedbound, but something about this feels oddly different. More intimate. I clear my throat, turning my focus back on the task. “My Nan used to tell me never to trust a man with no callouses on his hands. I noticed Remus’s are smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

As he turns away again, his cheek flinches, like he wants to smile again, but won’t.

Hiding my own smile, I continue on with my washing, rinsing and lathering, as I make my way down each arm. Along his forearm is a telling white scar that runs the length of his vein, the sight of which is an unspoken measure for how far this man has been pushed.

I don’t ask about it. Instead, I pass the cloth to Titus, and wait as he cleans his chest and armpits.

Once he’s finished, I keep on, down to his feet, and when I reach for his ankle, he recoils his leg, frowning.

“Please. I’d like to do this for you.” I reach again, and though the frown remains, he allows me to set his foot in my lap to wash.

I’ve always appreciated the story of Jesus washing the feet of the apostles, and our old priest even went so far as to practice Maundy before Easter. It always seemed a kind and modest gesture to me, but I can see Titus isn’t accustomed to such things, the way his muscles seem to tense as he keeps his gaze cast from mine. The attention clearly makes him uncomfortable.

The bowl is a sudsy brown by the time I’m done, and I call for the guard to change it out once more.

Squeezing fresh water over his skin washes away the soap left behind, and I find, the cleaner he becomes, the easier it is to see his scars. So many of them. “Can I get your back for you?”

Wearing an unenthusiastic expression, he huffs and twists to the side, crossing his chained arms over one another.

My stomach lurches at the sight of him. A map of rough scars covers his back in the crisscross patterns of what must’ve been inflicted by a whip. Deep, tunneling grooves pass beneath my fingertips as I mindlessly touch them, and at the twitch of his shoulder, I draw back my hand for the cloth.

Gone is the odor from before, and by the time I’m finished, he smells clean, in spite of the room’s lingering stench.

“I’ll return to check on your sutures. Make sure they’re healing appropriately.”

Pulling his knees up, he rests his elbows there. “Thanks.”

“And thank you again. Whether my situation is better, or worse, I’m grateful for what you did back at the arena.”

Not bothering to look at me, he offers only a curt nod in response.

After gathering up the supplies, I wait for the guard to close the door and hand off the dirty water and cloths to him. “How is there electricity in this place?”

“Remus stole a bunch of solar panels a while back. More than enough for this building.”

“What does he intend to do with all that power?”

“Same thing all men with power intend. Hoard it. Let me get rid of this.” He shuffles off somewhere with the blood-soaked cloths, and the sound of whispers reach my ear just as before.

Frowning, I peer in on Titus, whose mouth doesn’t appear to be moving. I tiptoe to the next door, searching through the small window, only the dim light from my side of the door offering an obscure view of beyond.

The profile of a man on his knees, in prayer, seizes my attention.

My heart slams into my throat.

No.

Chapter 12

“Will?”

Unlike Titus, he isn’t chained to the wall, and at the sound of his name, he snaps his head round and jumps to his feet. Frowning, he strides toward me, coming to a stop in front of the window, bruised skin and the purple plum of a swollen eye making me cringe. “Thalia! My God, you’re alive!”

A tremble of fear moves through me, yet at the same time, unspeakable relief washes over it at the first familiar face I’ve seen in weeks. “What are you doing here?”

“A week ago. Our transport was intercepted by marauders. They killed off my partner, and I got shipped off here.”

“Did they do this to you? The marauders?”