Page 69

Her mark tingled as she pressed deeper, weaving past the surface and into him—through the snarled mass of pain pulsing beneath his skin. With a jolt, she saw it all, almost losing grip of the weave.

There was a storm inside him. Suffering bound itself into knots, some old and coiled together, others raw and frayed, all of them glowing like heated wire. If she tried, it would take seasons to untangle it all, and yet he’d carried most of it for cycles.

She shifted her focus gently, finding the thread-line of his muscles. Pain carried memory, and when she brushed the frayed strands, they appeared: a boot driving into his chest; the Fist sneering down; the flash of a gauntlet before everything went dark.

The force of it jolted through her Spirit—the panic, the heat, a helpless surge of fire. It merged with her own emotions until she felt what he had—fear, desperation—but she couldn’t let it distract her from her task.

She steadied her breath and began to pull the fibers together, smoothing and aligning them until they held. His cry tore through her. The threads wavered. She stayed with him, breathing through the pain until the two lines—the healed and the broken—met like cloth stretched on a loom. Before she released the weave, she eased the swelling around his eye, the deep tenderness beneath the bruises. Each strand took more from her.

When she could do no more, she let the cords slip from her grasp. The world tilted as she opened her eyes. Her head was light, her breath shallow. She pressed her hand into the warmth of his chest, steadying herself as the dizziness faded.

The skin around his eye was still bruised, but the swelling had faded. He blinked slowly, testing it, then looked at her.

“You’re right,” he panted. “That hurt. But not all of it. Didn’t know healing could feel like that. Guess they’re wrong—nothing that gentle could ever be a curse.”

She pulled her hands away and folded them in her lap, looking away. “I’m glad it worked.”

The room fell quiet, broken only by the fire and the drag of his breathing. She should have stopped there and let him rest. But her gaze drifted past the bruises, the old scars, the patches of salve gleaming over his skin in the firelight.

And then she saw it, right under his collarbone. She tilted her head. It must’ve been hidden beneath the dark bruising, and now that it was gone, the mark was clear.

A burn, too clean to be accidental. Circular—jagged lines curling through the center, almost like letters. The wound was red and puckered, but old. The pain must have been excruciating. It was a story written in suffering—one he hadn’t told her yet.

Her thumb brushed against it.

The skin around the brand was hotter than it should’ve been, as if the wound itself burned as a reminder. He flinched, eyes flickering open, but didn’t move to stop her. When he shifted, she drew her hand away quickly, cheeks flaring hot.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Curiosity, probably.” His voice was weary but gentle.

“Is this from…” She hadn’t meant to touch it, but part of her couldn’t believe it was real until she had. She couldn’t even imagine who would do such a thing to another person.

“Crimson Brand…That one’s a longer story. Not sure I’ve got the strength for it tonight.”

She nodded quickly, brushing her palms together. Her eyes lingered on the old scar. She could see it now—the lines formed a C and B, the Brand’s name written in the scar itself. A mark to seal him to them. Ownership he couldn’t escape. The thought twisted in her gut. No wonder he’d run.

He watched her quietly through half-lidded eyes.

“Guess I can put the shirt back on,” he said.

His mouth twitched with the beginning of a smirk. The split in his lip pulled painfully, though he didn’t seem to care. The crooked grin caught her off guard. It was the same look Tavrin always had before saying something he probably shouldn’t.

“Unless you need more time to stare.”

Heat rushed up her neck. “You’re obviously feeling better.” She tossed the shirt at him with a huff, ignoring the grin tugging at his mouth. “Good. I’m fixing your nose next.”

“That sounds painful,” he groaned. “Haven’t I suffered enough for one night?”

“It’s crooked.” She slipped the salves back into her satchel.

“Always been that way.” He tugged the shirt on again, his movements slow but steady. “I suppose you can make improvements.”

“I’ll try my best,” she answered, deceptively calm.

When she crouched closer, he eyed her hand like it was a loaded trap. She caught the look of suspicion in his eyes. Warning him would only make him flinch.

“That’s not very encour—”