Chapter 11: Thirty Days

Joran's POV

The healer sewed me up in the infirmary at three in the morning, and then everyone left me alone.

I lay on a cot in the dark with fourteen stitches under my shoulder and listened to the pack celebrate outside.

They were singing for her.

The songs had her name in them.

Nobody sang for me, and I had not earned it.

My eyes were closed when the door opened.

I knew who it was before she spoke.

Her scent filled the room, rain on stone, and something warm underneath.

"You're awake," Ilse said.

"I am."

She stood at the foot of the cot with her arms crossed.

She wore a gray sweater of Wystan's with the sleeves pushed to her elbows, and her hair was down.

I had never seen it down.

It hung almost to her waist, dark and loose, and the lamp behind her made it glow at the edges.

I looked at the ceiling.

"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Step in front of the blade."

"It was meant for you."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

She came around to the side of the cot, and my pulse picked up.

I could not hide it.

She heard it, and her mouth tightened.

"I'm going to look at your wound," she said, and her voice was clipped.

"The healer already did."

"Then I'm checking her work."

She pulled back the blanket.

I lay still.

Her fingers touched the edge of the bandage, slowly, and spread across my chest.

They were cool.

I felt every one of them.

I felt the heat run down my stomach, and I was glad of the blanket.

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