Page 93 of The Enemy's Daughter

Liam clears his throat, and it’s like a bucket of river water dumped over my head. Right. The room has been silent for too long.

My shoulders drop, and the fight leaches out of me. The essence of what Tristan is saying is that I scared him. It hurt him. How can I be mad about that?

I’m sorry, I say into his mind. Without a doubt, I’d do what it took to save him again, but I am sorry for what it put him through.

After swallowing hard to clear the emotion from my voice, I speak out loud. “I’ll need to check Tristan’s bandage.”

Liam appears in front of me, blocking my path. “We’re not here for that.”

“Get your hands off her,” Tristan snarls.

Liam’s face turns threatening. He takes a step. “What did you say to me?”

“Stop!” I shout, my hand gripping Liam’s shirt.

His chest puffs with a breath. Then he comes back to me and cups my face. “I’m sorry. He won’t hurt you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Oh, mother of a maggot piper.

Tristan’s anger is like acid coating my skin; it burns as it sinks into every pore. I close my eyes, trying to separate his emotions from my own so I don’t punch Liam in the throat. “I need to checkTristan’s wound for infection, formyown protection,” I say.

It takes a second for Liam to understand that I’m referencing mymagicconnection with Tristan. His shoulders fall an inch in resignation, and I waste no time doing what I have to do.

I don’t have my medical bag, which means no healing herbs or cleaning solution. But in my pocket is the roll of bandages I found in my room. My heart both aches and speeds up as I approach Tristan. My fingertips graze his skin.

I loveyou, I send to him.

The connection becomes a current, washing away the hurt and anger between us. What it leaves behind is difficult to hide.

Tristan’s gaze grows steady, his eyes glowing with heat.

You shouldn’t look at me that way, I tell him as I unravel the thick cloth.

As if it takes effort, he drags his eyes away to stare at the wall.

“I’ve examined it,” Henshaw says. “It’s not as bad as yours. He stopped just in time.”

Liam hovers closer. “What does that mean? How did he stop this?”

“It means nothing,” I snap, throwing Henshaw a glare. “He was lucky.”

“Yes,” Henshaw adds clumsily. “That’s what I meant.”

It was more thanluck, Tristan says in my head.Do you remember?He shows me his memory of Henshaw stitching my vein back together, then of him using hand signals to guide Tristan in what and how much to heal.

I remember hazy moments of thinking of Tristan to distract myself from the pain, but I had no idea the complexity of what was taking place.Thank you.

“Have you been taking the antibacteriums I prescribed?” Henshaw asks me.

Liam’s eyes shift to me. “I put them beside your bed so you could take them when you woke up.”

“Okay, I’ll take them when I get back,” I say, patently ignoring Tristan’s stare. Every one of Liam’s words stokes suspicion about exactly how close I’ve gotten to him.

Unraveling the last of the bandage from around Tristan’s neck, I find his gash that matches mine. Except he doesn’t have any stitches. His wound stretches from the left side of his neck, then thins to a line over his Adam’s apple. Dried blood covers his golden skin, but I don’t see anything concerning.

“It’s smaller than yesterday,” Henshaw says. “But neck injuries usually close up remarkably fast on their own.”

Let’s hope that remains the case before he gets an infection. The connection stirs, and I direct it to his injury to assess it again—until I hit a wall.

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