by Cate Dean
“Micah—”
“I’m sorry. Coping mechanism.”
“I’m going to turn you on your right side. Let me know if anything hurts.” Raine started to pull the tail of his shirt free, and saw more bruises on his back, some scrapes, but no cuts that would account for the blood on his shirt. “Where did all this blood come from?”
“One of my captors. He was outside the door when the bomb exploded, and took shrapnel in his left side. I think he was trying to take me with him, but I couldn’t stand, and he couldn’t lift me, so he left.”
“He bled on you, then, while he was trying.” She lowered him to his back, as carefully as she could. He still flinched. “I’m sorry—”
“I hurt everywhere, so you’re bound to find a sore spot no matter where you touch.” Micah gave her a brief, unconvincing smile, his eyes dark with exhaustion and pain. “As for my failed abductor, I was just happy to still be dazed from the explosion. Watching him bleed on me would not have been an enjoyable sight.”
“I’m surprised he was able to walk away at all.”
“I think some of the blood was from the other man.” Micah’s voice lowered, until Raine had to lean in to hear him. “He was killed in the explosion. Liam thinks I didn’t see him, but I did, before they showed up. I never meant for anyone to get hurt, Raine—I just wanted to break out of there—”
“They had no right to hold you, Micah.” She cradled his cheek, ran her hand through his hair, slow, soothing, until the panic faded from his eyes. “And no one would judge you for what you did.”
“I do.” He swallowed, staring at the ceiling. “I watched him die, Raine. I wouldn’t let him die alone, not when it was my fault, so I watched him, kept eye contact with him until he—”
“Micah.” She pressed her lips to his forehead, then framed his face with her hands. “You’re safe now. You’re home. Hold on to that, all right? Time will help with the rest. I promise you, it will help.” He nodded, tears sliding over her fingers, into his hair. “I’m going to have them take you to bed. I have to go, but I’ll be back soon, with some magic potions for those bruises of yours.”
“Thank you.” He closed his eyes.
Raine waited for him to relax, to fall into the sleep he fought so desperately. She understood, all too well.
“Liam?” He turned to her, more composed than he was before; she could still see the ache lingering in his eyes. Both brothers needed time. “Can you have him brought to his room? He has some bruises, but I can tend him there when I return.”
“Of course.” He strode to the doorway, signaled one of the servants who were most likely hovering nearby, waiting for word of their young lord. Raine knew that Micah was well loved inside these walls. Another factor that would help him heal. “Thank you, Raine.” He stood in front of her. This close, she saw the exhaustion, the fear crouching behind it.
“Micah will be fine. You got to him in time.” She brushed one hand through her hair. It was still loose, the front pulled back with a lonely hairpin she found in her pocket. Another item to add to her growing list. “I will be back soon.”
“Can you ride?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Take one of the horses. You can carry more, and will return sooner. I believe I own them now.” A hint of a smile touched his face.
“They look like fine animals. Thank you.” She paused on the threshold. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
He nodded, and turned back to his brother. Raine walked across the main hall, past the small knots of servants. She hated leaving them like this, especially with Micah’s hands in such condition. She wanted to check them more thoroughly, be sure that the loss of blood flow and the pressure from the ropes didn’t cause any permanent damage. If they did, she would help Micah in every way she knew how…
And when did she become so attached to a pair of royal brothers? One of them much more than the other.
The thought stopped her in her tracks.
This was not supposed to happen. She was supposed to earn out her bond, and leave, free to create the life she wanted, not the life someone else paid for her to have.
She walked faster, and made a decision—the only decision she could make.
Once Micah was better, she had to walk away from them. For good.
It hurt to even think about. But she had suffered worse, and it was easier to cut fragile ties than those that started to wrap around a person, until there was no possible way to break free.
After a life spent in shame and servitude, she needed to break free.
Twelve
Raine tied the horse near the water trough, behind the small stable Celia kept for guests. She didn’t plan on staying long, but she didn’t want the beast getting too comfortable and become stubborn about leaving.
The blood on the latch of the back door froze her.
She took a deep breath, and eased the door open, just enough to check the narrow hall. No one in sight, but there was a light coming from her room, and a shadow breaking that light.
She slid along the wall, stopping in the pantry long enough to grab a knife. Being caught with a weapon by the wrong person would mean imprisonment, and an automatic five years added to her bond. She would rather take the chance, and be alive to accept any punishment.
Years of walking this hall had her automatically avoiding the squeaky wood planks, and she reached the doorway to her room without a sound. Labored breathing pinpointed her target. Raine centered herself, then grabbed the door frame and swung into the room.
Her knife froze mid arc when she recognized the intruder.
“Joseph?”
He clutched the wall, left hand pressed to his side. Blood already saturated his leg; even with his black clothing, her small lamp picked out the sheen of it against the fabric.
“I had a bit of an—accident.”
She lowered the knife and rushed forward to catch him when he started to sway. “Sit.” He sank to her bed, blood staining the blanket. “I’ll need you to remove your hand, so I can check the wound.”
“There might still be—shrapnel. I can feel something cutting at me.”
Her hand froze over his side. “How were you injured, Joseph?”
“I walked past a building in dockside, just as it exploded.”
“All right.” She laid the knife against his throat. “Now tell me the truth.”
“Raine—”
“I just came from treating Micah. I know what happened.”
“I told you, I was—”
“He described one of his captors, who tried to take him out of the building after the explosion. A man in black clothing, with an injury to his left side. An injury that left a good amount of blood on Micah’s shirt.” She pressed the knife into his skin, her hand shaking. “Please tell me it wasn’t you.”
“Raine.” Joseph closed his eyes, his face whiter than his distinctive hair. “I need your help.”
She lowered the knife as he slumped over, dropping it to catch him before he slid to the floor. “I’m going to help you,” she whispered, easing him back until he lay on her bed. “But it is going to cost you.”
He swallowed, the hand against his wound shaking. “Understood.”
Always the diplomat.
Raine pulled the leather satchel out from under her bed, and dug out the kit she hid at the bottom. She shook out her hand, untied the thin leather strap, and unfolded it. The lamplight danced off the neat line of surgical instruments, each one sharper than the knife next to her.
She lifted her head, met Joseph’s eyes. He looked from her, to the kit, then back to her.
“Is that—”
“A surgical kit. I’m qualified to use it, if that’s what worries you.”
He laid his head back. “It seems I am not the only one with secrets.”
Raine closed her eyes for a moment, then pulled the long, narrow scalpel out of its pocket. “I need you to hold still.”
She dug out three pieces of what l
ooked like broken bits of machine parts. Fortunately for Joseph, they missed anything vital. It was the bleeding that concerned her. He clutched the frame of the bed, his grip so tight the wood creaked.
“I need to stitch your wound,” she said. “But I have to find the source of the bleeding first. It will hurt.”
“You have—an unusual bedside manner.”
“I don’t normally try to save traitors.”
Joseph let out a shaky breath. “I only want to—”
“Save your speech for someone who cares.” She looked up at him, everything she learned about him in the last few minutes tearing away the affection she always had for him, as the upright, surprisingly funny younger brother of her mistress. “I’m helping you because I like you. Damn it,” she whispered, bending over his wound again. “I care about you. That makes your deceit hurt more.”
“Raine—I am sorry.”
Her fingers probed deeper—and Joseph cried out, arching away from her. She found the reason. There was another piece of shrapnel.
“Joseph.” She caught his shoulder, lowered him to the bed. “I know this is painful, but I need you to hold still. I don’t want to cause more damage.”
With the long tweezers, she eased the piece of metal out, then slapped Joseph’s hand against the wound.
“Press hard, Joseph, no matter how much pain.”
He watched her as she prepared the needle, his breathing ragged.
“Raine.”
“Lower your hand.” She wiped her forehead with her arm, then leaned in, stitching the wound from the inside out. Some of the stitches would have to stay, but his body would eventually break them up.
By the time she finished, her hands were shaking, and Joseph had his eyes closed, his face slack. Raine pushed to her feet, careful to keep her bloody hands from touching anything, and went out to the sink in the back room to wash up.
She leaned over the sink for a long time, finally allowing herself to react to the revelations, and the pressure of holding a man’s life in her hands. It had been so long—her former master warned her to keep her training a secret, until she was free, and could create a story to explain her skills in a place no one knew her—
Cutting off the pointless thoughts, she finished cleaning herself up, and returned to her room. Joseph opened his eyes as she approached the bed.
“It feels—better. Thank you.”
She crossed her arms. “I was planning to tell them about you, but it seems you know my dark secret now.” A secret that could have her imprisoned, at the least, if it got out. The physician’s academy here frowned on outsiders not trained in their ways. A Shira half-blood who could perform surgery—that just might prompt them to a higher level of outrage.
“I will keep your secret close,” Joseph whispered. “If you do the same.”
“Joseph—your secret is tantamount to treason. I don’t think I can—”
“I am done with them, Raine. You have my word.” He lifted his arm, and flinched at the movement. “I told them no violence, and yet they threatened young Micah, and I overheard them planning to kill Liam once they took over the city.”
“Who are they? And how the hell did you become part of this?”
Joseph sighed. “I want—more, for Palamar. For the kingdom. For Liam. He has a fine mind, and I had hoped—” He shook his head. “But he refused to even listen. I became desperate, stupidly so, I see now.”
Raine leaned over him, picking up the bloody scalpel and laying the razor sharp blade across his throat. “You will step out of it now, Joseph, or I will slit your throat before you finish speaking.”
He stilled, and met her eyes. “I swear to you, from this moment, I am Liam’s man.”
“I should kill you,” she whispered. “And spare Liam the grief. I am more than capable.” That was a part of her past no one here would ever know about.
“Raine—”
“I have been a bond servant since I was twelve. I never had a choice of master, or what they required of me.” She held his gaze, even as shame washed through her. “Betray either of them, and I will kill you, Joseph, even though I still care about you.”
She straightened, and gathered her instruments. They needed to be cleaned, and she needed to get back to the castle, before Liam sent guards looking for her.
“Raine.” His voice halted her. “I will hold your secret. Unless you force me to do otherwise, I will take it to my grave.”
“Thank you, Joseph.”
She walked out, her hands shaking at the thought of the entanglement she had just created.
With all her heart, she hoped she wasn’t the one to send Joseph to that grave.
Thirteen
Micah took his time responding to Liam’s request to meet him, dragging his feet, literally, as he moved closer to his destination. He stopped in the doorway.
“Good to see you up, little brother.” Liam leaned against the long table in Micah’s workshop, arms crossed. “I haven’t seen you in here for a while.”
Not since I was kidnapped.
Micah couldn’t say it out loud, wouldn’t. The panic, and the terror of being absolutely helpless had receded. But he still bolted awake at night, sweat soaked and shaking with the memory of another dream, where he didn’t survive his ordeal.
He ran one finger along the edge of the sling holding his left arm, and avoided Liam’s gaze. “My hands aren’t quite ready yet.”
“Raine told me differently.”
Micah let out a sigh. “Just ask your question, Liam.”
His brother straightened and moved to him, laying his hand on Micah’s right shoulder. “I need to know if you’re all right.”
The fear edging Liam’s usually strong voice left Micah shaken.
“I will be.” He grabbed Liam’s wrist. “You’re blaming yourself.”
“This was my fault!” Liam jerked out of his grip, and froze when Micah gasped. “And I hurt you again.”
“Liam—”
“I should have talked to them. I should have—”
“Given in to fanatics?” Micah poked Liam in the chest with his finger, ignoring the ache that still plagued his joints. “What they wanted may have been promising, some of it even brilliant, but their terrorist tactics proved that they would go to any lengths to win. Did you really want men like that standing at your back?”
Liam stared at him for a long moment. Then a smile spread across his face. “My baby brother is growing up.”
“Don’t call me that.” The nickname sparked a memory, one he almost buried under the pain. “Liam—my kidnappers, they called me lordling.”
The smile disappeared, replaced by the slow burning anger that Micah avoided setting off in his brother. It usually exploded at the cause. Liam closed the door, pulled him further into the workshop. “We have a traitor.”
Micah swallowed. He hated bearing bad news, but it was better for Liam to know. Better that they all know. Home was no longer safe. “I’m afraid so,” he whispered.
Liam wrapped his arms around Micah, careful of his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” He kissed Micah’s forehead and stepped back. “That will be the last time I apologize, you have my word. Now, we make plans.”
“What are you going to do about—”
“Our traitor?” Liam smiled, a cold smile that sent a shiver down Micah’s back. “We give him enough slack to hang himself. I need you in here, creating some clever traps for me.”
“Liam—”
“This is who you are, Micah.” He gestured to the half-finished experiments spread across the long table, the books Micah had collected over the years filling the tall shelves. “I won’t allow them to take that from you. And I won’t stand by and let you walk away from it.”
Micah took the first step, then another, until he stood at the table. His hand shook when he laid it on the familiar, worn wood, touched the pendant of the small timepiece he had reworked to chime when he set it to, instead of on the hour. The connection, p
hysical and emotional, finally helped ease the ache that lay like a fist on his heart.
Liam cradled the back of his neck, his hand warm. “I need you, little brother.”
Tear stung his eyes. He pressed his face against his brother’s shoulder, the tears he fought for days finally breaking free. As if waiting for him, Liam pulled him in, his arms strong as they held Micah.
After a few minutes he straightened, wiped his face.
“Better?” Liam asked the question in a quiet voice, no sarcasm, no teasing.
“I think I needed to—let it out.”
“You survived a traumatic experience, Micah. If I had been in your place I would most likely be huddled in a corner, crying like a girl.”
Micah fought the smile that threatened. “Doubtful.”
“But possible. No one knows how they’ll react in a situation. Until that situation yanks them in.”
“Eloquent.”
Liam grinned—his first real grin in longer than Micah could remember. “I found straightforward works best for me. I’ll leave eloquent to you, little brother.” He sobered, studying Micah. “What do you say? Will you help me?”
Micah touched the surface of the table again. His fingers ached in the cold workshop, but they no longer shook. “I believe I can.”
Liam kissed his forehead and strode to the door. “I’ll hold you to that. Since you’ll be spending more time in here, I’ll have a larger stove brought in. And Micah,” he paused, his hand on the latch. “Some fingerless gloves will help keep your hands warm.”
Micah stared at the door for a long time after Liam left. His brother noticed more than he let on. That quality would make him a good leader—and dangerous to his enemies.
He slid onto the stool, adjusting his left arm in the sling, and absently rubbed his shoulder. Like the rest of him, it was healing. Now that he had finally been forced into his workshop, he understood that being here would also begin to help his heart and his mind heal.
This was home. Micah nearly let those faceless strangers take it from him, but that was done. This time, when he faced them, it would be on his terms.
