Page 38 of Nansar
The second female bore a different offering. A ceramic bowl trailing wisps of fragrant steam, neatly folded cloth, and a small clay jar filled with something green and pungent that screamed medicine.
"The elder sends provisions." The first one's voice was like water over stones—smooth, musical. She set the food on the low table near the bed. "You must eat. Maintain your strength."
The second approached more cautiously, her gaze flickering to Nansar's motionless form with what might have been concern. "For his wound." She gestured to the green salve. "It will aid healing. Ward off infection." She placed her tray beside the food, then indicated a bundle of fabric tucked under her arm. "Clean clothing. Simple, but it will keep you warm."
"Thank you." The words scraped out of me, inadequate and small. "Both of you."
The first female paused at the threshold, her hand resting on the doorframe. When she turned back, something had softened in her expression—a small smile that transformed her alien features into something almost familiar. "Rest now. You are safe here."
Safe. With the Welati. I was sure there was an oxymoron in there somewhere.
Then they were gone, the door whispering shut, leaving me alone with Nansar and the fire's crackling voice.
I knelt beside the bed, my knees hitting the floor hard. The bowl of water sent up delicate spirals of steam, and I dipped one of the cloths into it, wringing it out with trembling hands.
Blood had crusted dark around the gash on his temple, matting his hair into stiff peaks. I worked with aching slowness, dabbing at the dried blood until it softened and surrendered. The wound beneath was angry, swollen, the edges inflamed—but the bleeding had stopped. Small mercies.
Nansar moaned softly as I cleaned the injury, his head turning slightly toward my touch like a flower seeking sun. The sound punched straight through my chest.
"I know," I whispered, my voice fracturing. "I'm sorry. Almost done."
When the wound was clean, I opened the clay jar. The salve inside was thick and verdant, smelling of herbs I couldn't name—something sharp and medicinal, but not unpleasant. I scooped some onto my fingers and applied it as gently as I could, spreading it over the gash in a thin, careful layer.
Nansar's breathing remained steady, deep. Still unconscious, but alive. Still here.
I sat back on my heels, studying his face in the firelight. The strong line of his jaw. The way his dark lashes cast shadows on his pale cheeks. Even injured, even unconscious, he looked formidable. Beautiful in a way that made my heart twist with something I wasn't ready to name.
My stomach growled—loud, insistent, embarrassingly human. I finally turned to the food tray. The meat was still warm, seasoned with something that tasted like sage and black pepper. I ate mechanically, barely registering the flavors, but forcing myself to chew and swallow. Fuel. That's all this was. The flatbread was dense and filling, the vegetables soft and earthy.
When I finished, I looked down at myself and grimaced. The Alliance jumpsuit was a disaster—ripped at the shoulder and knee, stained with blood and dirt and probably things I didn't want to identify. I could smell myself, a mix of sweat and fear and exhaustion that wasn't pleasant in the least.
The bowl still held water, cloudy now from cleaning Nansar's wound, but enough. I glanced at him—unconscious, breathing steadily—then moved to the far corner of the cottage for what little privacy I could manufacture.
I peeled off the jumpsuit, the ruined fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin before finally surrendering. The cold air hit me immediately, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs like braille. My underwear had somehow survived the ordeal, though they'd definitely seen better days.
Using a clean corner of the cloth, I dipped it in the remaining water and began washing myself. The water had gone cold, but I didn't care. I scrubbed at my arms, my neck, under my arms, doing my best to erase the grime and the memories it carried. It wasn't a proper shower—God, what I wouldn't give for hot water and soap—but it was something. It made me feel a fraction more human, a degree more in control.
When I was done, I reached for the clothing the Welati female had brought. Simple homespun cloth in pale blue, soft from years of wear and washing. I pulled it over my head, working my arms through the sleeves, then tied the fastenings at the sides. The dress fell just below my knees, loose and comfortable, nothing like the tactical gear I'd lived in for so long.
But it was clean. And it was warm. And right now, that was everything.
The cut on my arm from where I’d removed the tracker was healing, but still tender. I allowed myself a small scoop of the green gel, hoping the antiseptic properties would hinder any type of infection.
Outside, voices drifted through the walls—low murmurs that I couldn't quite parse. Close, maybe just beyond the cottage. Discussing us? Debating what to do with the strangers who'd stumbled into their territory?
I strained to hear, but the words remained frustratingly indistinct, just a murmur of sound that rose and fell like distant music.
The fire had burned down while I ate, the flames lower now, sulking. I felt the cold creeping in through the gaps in the walls, insidious and patient. Night had fallen completely, and with it came the mountain chill that bit through even the cottage's warmth.
I moved to the woodpile stacked near the hearth and selected a few logs, tossing them onto the fire. Sparks flew upward like tiny stars, and the flames caught, crackling back to life with renewed hunger.
For a moment, I just stood there, watching the fire dance, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones like lead. Every muscle ached. My mind felt foggy, overwhelmed, like I was thinking through cotton.
I used to be someone who could handle anything.
Naval intelligence. FBI. I'd been trained by the best, had worked cases that would have shattered lesser agents. I'd been strong, capable, the woman who walked into dangerous situations with her head high and her instincts razor-sharp. My body had been a weapon when I needed it to be—disciplined, reliable, mine to command.
Declan Hewes had stolen that from me.
