A Web of Steam & Puppet Strings (Sevastyan #1)

Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I lagged behind the others. Cold sweat plastered my hair to my neck and dribbled down my spine. My arms shook and I had to use the wall to guide me. I didn't care if the curious soldiers stopped to watch me as I left a trail of blood splatters in my wake. I hardly noticed anything when my vision threatened to burn out with every step.

And then Rurik was there, and he hooked my arm around my shoulder to ease the weight off my leg. Even that hurt. Everything hurt. But this at least hurt less.

"Brazen," was all he said at first.

I snorted. Or, I'd meant to. It sounded a bit watery, as did my breathy attempt at speaking. "Adding my own personal touch to her spotless tapestry?" I laughed. It sounded watery as well. "She's a bit demented about...about that, isn't she? Aestheticism."

"Obsessive, yes. I find most doctors of the sort suffer from strange ticks and habits." His ever scolding eyes shot me the Look. "Brazen that you went after him, especially in your condition."

"I suppose I'm also a bit obsessive." I paused to catch my breath before I quietly added, "She knew I would go after him."

"She must have."

When we reached the Chambers, Rurik released me so I could drag my damaged leg inside of my own volition. Not three feet into the corridor, the 'he' in question was sprawled across the floor, spread-eagle, in his gown. No one restrained him.

The floor quaked as the Doors shut, and I remained standing there, over his body. How long had I been in this prison? About nine months, which meant so had he. She hadn't allowed him the space to run around and keep his body trained. It was obvious in the atrophy of his muscles, how his shape had whittled away.

He could have looked worse.

He could have looked better.

I rolled my lips in, unsure of what to do when he was simply strewn on his back, enjoying the comfort of hard concrete. What was I supposed to say? I was the only one who remembered our old clan. And even if I'd thought him gone forever, still, for some reason, a part of me had expected him to come back. To return and rescue us. I feared as soon as I opened my mouth, all of that and a hundred other things would come pouring out, and there'd be no cork to stop it.

So I turned on my good heel and limped away. Finally, he started upright and asked, "You're just going to leave me here? Are you really so cruel?"

"Crueler." My slick hand landed on the door of my bunk.

"Wait, wait, wait. Hang on." He scrambled to his feet, the papery gown crinkling with every slight movement. "You can't just lie down like that—you're bleeding."

"Am not."

"I can smell it, you dolt."

I stopped and whirled around. He didn't quite expect the sudden movement, not with the way he jerked to a stop and flinched away, his untrimmed thistle of brown hair a wild mess around his face. I couldn't hold back my interest when I asked, "Can you really?"

"Yes." Pause. "No. I can see the trail you're leaving on the floor and—no, no, don't turn away. We need to do something about it. Are there any mending tools in this place?" He peered all around, his nose wrinkled up in displeasure. Perhaps that meant his own prison hadn't been so bad, after all.