Page 21 of To Snap a Silver Stem
Face screwed up, I splint the break with the second spoon, using string to secure it, then stitch the raw edges of his wound together. I’m so busy concentrating I don’t realize he’s passed out until the other spoon clatters onto the floor.
I sponge away the rest of the blood, apply another tip of alcohol, slather the rope burn in a balm made from rendered pig fat, then wrap his arm.
A small, accomplished smile teases the corners of my mouth as I clean my hands and instruments in a bowl of cloudy water. Turning back to the room, I wander between the cots, searching for anyone else that needs attention. Finding nobody, I look in the direction of Vanth’s cot tucked in the corner behind a curtain, then at Alon—still elbow deep in that man’s innards.
“Crap,” I mutter, drawing a shaky breath.
I gather my stuff in a basket, push my shoulders back, and approach, skin pricking the moment I cross into his line of sight.
“Is it just the head wound?” I ask, rifling through my med box.
He chugs a draw of rum, his eyes clinging to me as he drains half the bottle.
Right.
“It needs to be cleaned, then I’ll stitch it up.” I dampen some cheesecloth with a tip of alcohol and fish out the needle, threading the eye before sparking a match and firing the tip. “Do you want something to bite down on?” I ask, shaking out the flame.
He takes another swig.
His legs are spread so far apart, the only spot for me to stand is right between them. Trying not to show how uncomfortable I am with his power play, I clear my throat, step forward, and dab at his face, swiping away the blood.
He doesn’t flinch—not even when I begin threading the fine needle through his flesh, tugging the torn edges together in tidy increments.
The wound is a long, messy gash, requiring every ounce of my concentration. So when his rusty voice breaks the silence, I almost jump right out of my skin.
“Our High Master told us to protect your virtue,” he slurs. “But I find it hard to believe you and Rhordyn weren’t fucking.”
The words pierce me, and I pause, looking into his vacant stare, watching his pupils tighten as he draws his focus to my face.
“I saw the way he looked at you.” He gives me a thin-lipped smile laced with poison. “Like a man who’s already staked his claim. Torn your seams wide open.”
The only seams Rhordyn ever tore were the seams of my heart.
I shove the needle into Vanth’s head, feeling it collide with bone. He jerks back, hissing through clenched teeth.
“Oops.” I grab his head, pull him close again, and continue stitching. “Sorry. I’m new to this.”
He lifts the bottle and drains it, blowing his breath all over my face when he says, “How did you not learn to stitch? Most women know, and I saw the way you spent your days. It’s not like you lacked the time to learn.”
“I was too busy fucking Rhordyn,” I mutter dryly, tugging the next stitch so taught the skin puckers.
“Slut,” he slurs, swaying to his own tide as I stitch and tug, stitch and tug. “I wonder ... do you fuck dirty?”
My heart lurches into my throat, and I still for a moment before regaining my composure. “You’ll never know.”
I continue to stitch—faster now—eager to tie him off and be done.
Vanth’s energy seems to swell, like he can smell my vulnerability beneath my hardened exterior. I become painfully aware of my position between his legs—of his eyes leveled with my chest.
Of this space, so cut off from the rest of the crew.
“I saw him carry you away, you know. Saw you return wearing his shirt.” His hands slither down the length of his thighs, settling on his knees, and something inside me pulls tight. “I’ve seen you sniffing that pillow slip.”
I stop, needle half threaded through a messy lip of torn flesh.
Slowly—so fucking slowly—I let my gaze track down the crooked line of his cross-stitched wound to settle on his eyes.
In them, I see deep-seated pain, malicious intent, and a spark of fire I wish I was blind to.
