Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)
Betrayer: Chapter 7

Night crushes me as Gabriel leads me through the center of the camp and toward a tent that is bigger than the one the Bloodstone imprisoned me in. He lifts the flap and guides me into the well-lit interior.

The moment the flap settles into place and he frees me, I stumble a half step away from him and jerk my chin up. “Kill me quickly.”

He folds his arms.

“I don’t care to be a victim,” I say. “So, make it quick.”

“Do you think,” he begins, his words low and lined with annoyance, “that I would rescue you, dispatch your assailant, and then kill you too?”

I jab my right thumb into my left palm, sinking my nail into my flesh. “Yes.”

Gabriel scoffs and moves to a nearby shelf. “I brought you here, so you wouldn’t be forced to spend the night with a dead man.”

“A dead man cannot fight back,” I say. “Besides, I prefer him to you.”

Something about watching Gabriel murder my assailant freed my tongue and it left my emotions raw and torn.

Gabriel turns, holding a clean cloth. “Sit.” He nods toward the bed.

“No.” I’d rather sit on a cactus than on that bed.

It may be his.

I scan the room. No furniture, other than a washing stand and two shelves, inhabits the space. I hug my arms around my body and will this night to be over.

Before I comprehend his intentions, he crosses the tent, grabs my arm, and brings me to the edge of the bed. He pushes me to the mattress with a firm hand against my shoulder.

“I didn’t ask,” he says.

Frustration explodes through my veins at the sheer audacity of this man. I quell it the moment he shoves the cloth against my cheek. I gasp and try to jerk away. He grips the back of my neck, keeping me from squirming. Pain smarts against my skin as he holds the material tight. Earlier, I hadn’t remembered the injury.

“You’re the worst patient I have ever attended,” he grumbles.

“That’s because I’m not a patient. Release me.”

If anything, his hold tightens.

“Gabriel,” I begin, my tone as frigid as ice, “let me go.”

“I will when you stop bleeding.”

“I’d rather bleed all over this tent.” Than to be indebted to you. “Now, release me.”

He doesn’t listen. He does nothing but hold that damn material to my face. I exhale as his grip against my neck loosens, and he raises my face enough to meet his silver-blue eyes.

“You will not die tonight, Kyanite.”

I blink and allow his words to sink into my being. He hadn’t killed me. Instead, he prevented my attacker from shaking the life out of me.

He pulls the cloth back. “You need stitches.”

I nod numbly as he steps back to his shelf and rummages around until he replaces the necessary items. He joins me on the mattress, pours wine on a cloth, and touches it to the wound. Pain sears my skin anew, but I don’t move. Don’t protest.

When I was fourteen, I had a hook rip through my arm. Hattie, one of the women at the brothel, had stitched the wound. I remember the way she spoke, how she warned beforehand how badly it would hurt.

The warrior offers no such words. Instead, he pinches the cut together and pierces my skin. I inhale at the agony as he continues weaving the thread in and out. He finishes after he places six stitches into my torn flesh.

“Do you have salve?” When I fail to answer, he pulls the satchel at my waist, widening the material enough to glance inside. He pulls free a tiny, amber-colored bottle, pulls the lid, and sniffs. “Is this salve?”

I blink, but all I see is the man with the bone necklace entering my tent. All I hear is him smacking me and sending me to the ground.

“Kyanite.”

The sound keeps coming. Hand against flesh. Over and over again, he smacks me, and I fall into an endless drop.

Gabriel gathers a small amount against his index finger and rubs it against his hand. Torchlight throws shadows across his stern brow as he raises his arm and stares at the ointment.

“It doesn’t sting. It must be salve.” With his thumb, he lifts my chin and rubs the cream onto my cheek.

I wince against the throbbing, the memory, the horror. I was sure the huge man was going to kill me.

Gabriel gains his feet and moves to the washing stand, where he cleans his hands. He dries them as he turns to face me.

“You’ll stay here tonight.” He crosses the tent, picks up a blanket from the shelf, and sets it beside me. “Here.”

I grab the soft material and clutch it to my chest.

He reaches for my kyanite necklace, and I cringe, expecting him to rip it from my neck. Instead, he tucks it into my surcoat. “Keep this out of sight.”

Softness bends beneath my fingers as I clutch the blanket even tighter.

“You’re in shock,” he says in that same empathic voice from earlier.

I tuck my chin against the blanket. It’s my shield. My protection. My solace from the shadows gathering outside this room.

Gently, he brushes his fingers against my jaw. “You’re safe.”

I allow that contact, that tenderness, that comfort, even though the one offering the comfort is Bloodstone.

He picks up another blanket from the shelf and moves to the opposite side of the tent, where he sits. “You don’t belong here. When the council asks tomorrow, tell them you must go home.”

I shift to lie on my side and keep that blanket tucked close.

Help me, Mother. Give me strength. Pull me away from this darkness. This fog. Please, oh, please help me, Mother.

Silence answers my pleas. Such bone-aching silence.

Mother isn’t here. Not listening. She’s never been so distant before, never so far out of reach. It’s as if my being here with these Bloodstone people took her even further from me. Further than death. Further than the ravine between us.

I inhale and exhale, desperately searching for my calm. It’s out there somewhere. I know it is. I just need to replace it.

Maybe then, I’ll remember my reason for staying.