Page 34 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“The others would. I’ve met members of the guild from Tiamat before. Most tend to be sadistic bastards. But you...” He trails off, studying me in the fading light. “There’s no pleasure in it for you.”

I say nothing. What is there to say? That every life I take feels like another piece of myself dying?

We start walking back to the keep. My ribs throb with every step. The adrenaline is fading now, leaving only pain in its wake.

“Tell me about it,” Garrett says after a while. “The city, the guild. You.”

I glance at him. “Why?”

“Because if you’re going to be my shadow for another three weeks, I should know who you are.” He pauses and wipes blood from his sword with a handful of leaves. “And because you interest me.”

I look away, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “I’m not interesting.”

“You’re the most interesting thing to happen to me in years.” His eyes find mine and hold.

I should change the subject. But the pain in my ribs is getting worse, the adrenaline fading and leaving only a burning ache in its wake.

I stumble, catching myself against a tree.

Garrett notices immediately. His hand is on my arm, steadying me. “Hey, you’re hurt.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Wolf.”

I pull up my shirt. The wound is deeper than I thought. It’s still bleeding despite my attempts to ignore it. The edges are ragged where the blade caught me.

“Fuck,” Garrett mutters. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I said I was fine.”

“You’re an idiot.” But there’s worry in his voice, not anger. He tears a strip from his already ruined shirt and presses it against my ribs. I hiss through my teeth. “We need to get you to Anastarros temple.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?” His eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding.”

“I can’t leave you unguarded.”

“Wolf, you’re hurt protecting me. The least I can do—”

“The healers will make me stay.” I hold pressure on the wound myself, jaw tight. “They’ll want to monitor me, keep me overnight. I’m not leaving you without protection after we just got ambushed.”

Garrett stares at me for a long moment. “Are you fucking serious? That wound needs stitches.”

“I have a kit in my pouch.” I shift, wincing. “I can do it myself later back in my room. In front of the mirror.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I said sit.”

I find a fallen log near the edge of the forest and lower myself onto it. Garrett kneels in front of me, pulling my shirt up to expose the wound fully. He retrieves my stitch kit from my pouch.

“You’ve done this before,” I observe.

“Field medicine was part of my training.” He threads the needle, hands steady. “This is going to hurt.”