Page 37

Keahi

"Keahi, let me in!" Desperation bleeds into her tone as she makes her demand, and I can tell she’s in some kind of hurry.

That must be tough for her since I can’t think of a single good reason to let the enemy that’s proven she can best me in a fight and admitted to wanting to kill me into my home.

"Why would I do that?" I challenge.

She doesn’t retort anything, just tries to push past me again.

I hold my arm out to block her way once more but pull back with a frown when I feel something warm and sticky on it. I look down to find it spotted with blood. What on earth?

While I’m looking down at my arm, Malia slips inside my living room before I can stop her.

She starts pacing as I close the door slowly, trying to catch up.

Now that she is inside the lit room, I see how pale she is. Beads of sweat line her papery skin and there are unnaturally dark circles beneath her eyes.

The hand that isn’t trembling at her side is pressed firmly against her right side, and my stomach drops at the familiarity of this scene.

My mind is racing but can’t seem to form a solid thought.

Malia is here. The enemy is here. Why is there blood? Why is she here? That seems like a solid question.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to sound collected and professional.

Everything I wasn’t earlier at the ball.

"I don’t know.

I shouldn’t be here.

I couldn’t stay but I can’t be here either. I have nowhere to go," she rambles without looking at me.

She pulls her hand away from her side to run it through her hair, revealing that it is covered in blood as well.

My scrambled thoughts come to a halt.

She’s injured. That’s her blood. I finally leave my spot near the door to head over, maybe to shake some sense into her so she’d talk more coherently, but she collapses before I can reach her.

I hurry to her side and drop to my knees, rocking her shoulders slightly.

When she doesn’t stir, something within me unravels.

"Come on, Princess, wake up." My voice is unsteady, but there is no response.

No taunt or reply.

I curse under my breath and lift her into my arms to lay her down on the couch. Once she’s there, I grab some scissors to cut the bottom of her tight uniform.

Confusion curses through me as the first inch of her discolored, mismatched skin is revealed to me.

My hands work with more urgency, and I cut the shirt until I find the bloody part of her stomach.

I rip open the flaps of her shirt, but my hands still at the sight before me.

Scars.

They’re all over her, marking every inch of her stomach.

Scars of every kind, of various ages from the looks of it.

And there’s a bloody stab wound in the midst of it.

Holy skies.

What happened to her?

I force myself to tear my gaze away from the reminders of her old wounds and focus on the currently bleeding one.

Why wouldn’t she it heal herself? It doesn’t look overly complicated.

After seeing her treat that bullet wound in the middle of a mission, I know she should have been able to manage this. So what happened? I don’t question it for long and instead start to heal her. Suddenly I am glad I had that first-aid class all those years ago.

Her wound closes up beneath my hands but it’s the amount of blood she’s lost that worries me.

She will be fine; I keep reassuring myself.

And once she’s better, she better give me one heck of an explanation.

With a wet cloth, I start cleaning the skin around her wound as well as her face and hands.

As I do so, I notice that one of her hands is bleeding as well.

It might not be a fatal wound, but I soon realize it’s trickier to heal. I remember the charts we had to learn by heart at the academy, of all the bones in the body, aspect by aspect. I picture the image of a hand; where the bones and tendons are and how they’re all connected. If I want her to have full mobility back by the end of this, I need to get it all right.

Malia’s words replay in my head as I work on the hole in her limb.

I have nowhere to go.

How could she have nowhere to go? I’m sure her Fraction has a camp.

A thought occurs to me.

What if they did this to her? But that can’t be.

She’s been one of them for over four years. They might be the Dark Fraction, but I can’t imagine them maiming each other for fun and giggles.

Once I’ve done everything I could for Malia’s wounds and healed all her scars for good measure, I start getting a hold of myself.

I don’t know why I was so worried in the first place.

After all, I should not care about what happens to her.

Now that the worry subsides, a wave of anger hits me.

Surprisingly, it’s directed less at Malia but rather the person who did this to her.

How could anyone even do this? I’ve fought this girl, and it’s hard to believe that anyone could get close enough to stab her. Twice.

I sit on a chair opposite the couch and wait for her to wake up.

She looks peaceful like this.

A lot more like herself. Or at least more like the girl I used to know. It helps my heartbeat slow down to a normal pace while hollowing out my stomach impossibly more. What a fucking mess I’m in.

When Malia’s eyes flutter open, she quickly meets my gaze.

Her eyes widen a little as if she’s realizing anew where she is, and my expression hardens when she winces while shifting slightly.

“What happened to you?” I ask through gritted teeth.

She ignores me on her quest to achieve a sitting position, but my patience is wearing too thin for her defiance.

"Malia, who on earth did this to you?"

"Why, want to shake their hand?" she retorts without missing a beat, even if her voice sounds unusually hoarse.

It’s good to know she is well enough to be snappy.

"I’ve seen you fight.

If someone can do this to you, they’re a potential threat and the force needs to know." At least that’s the official reason I came up with in the ten minutes it took the girl to wake up as to why I care.

Malia laughs bitterly.

"Why am I not surprised? The golden boy, always thinking about what’s best for Arcane," she mocks me.

"You know, that really isn’t as bad of an insult as you think it is."

"Oh, no, I’m sure it’s always worked out just great for you." She chuckles but it contains no humor.

Then, she struggles to sit up straighter, and it’s clear to see she is still in pain.

I grit my teeth.

"Stay down," I order, but she ignores me.

"Stay down before I make you," I insist more firmly while getting to my feet.

She raises an eyebrow at me.

"I’d like to see you try."

I take a step closer.

"Right now, I could do about anything to you.

Which brings us back to your injuries. What happened?" Her stubborn ass sits up no matter what, so I finish the distance between me and the couch and press her shoulders down. She scowls at me but doesn’t fight, still not answering.

"Malia, you are in my house, and if you want to stay seeing as you have nowhere to go, I suggest you start explaining." Despite my growing frustration toward the girl, I take a step back, so she doesn’t have to look up at me uncomfortably.

"You wouldn’t throw me out," she states, sounding all too confident.

"I owe you nothing." I shrug.

"I saved your life twice," she reminds me.

"Now, so did I.

We’re even.

Besides, you only saved me to kill me some other time. I owe you nothing." My voice comes out colder than intended but Malia only smiles at me.

"Throw me out, then.

Come on, golden boy, we both know you don’t have a problem with abandoning me when it suits you." Her voice is loaded with detest, and her words unlock something inside of me.

Guilt. I quickly shake it off, though. She is just manipulating me.

"I’m truly sorry I didn’t interrupt your family reunion.

Was I supposed to come before or after you spilled all our secrets and became one of their weapons?" I snap despite my best intention not to dwell on this conversation.

Once again, a humorless laugh escapes her.

"I’m sure that helps you sleep at night, doesn’t it?"

I frown at her, but she gets up before I can think of an answer, heading straight for the door.

"I’ll make this a little easier for you, Keahi, since we both know you lack the balls." She says my name as if it was the most disgusting slur and reaches for the door.

"Thanks a ton for your hospitality, but I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome."

When her hand starts twisting the doorknob and she turns her back to me, I break out of my stupor and I rush toward her, grabbing her wrist before she can leave.

"Get your hands off me!" she hisses dangerously.

"You will answer my question."

"You can’t tell me what to do!" she snaps, not nearly as controlled as she usually is.

I blame it on her recent injury.

The one I still don’t know how she obtained. She rips her wrist away from me, resembling a scared animal when she hastily backs a step away.

"Did one of your own do this?" I ask more gently.

"They are not my own." Her words seem sincere, and it ignites a spark of hope inside of me.

Maybe she is still in there.

The thought is followed by dread. What happened to her to turn her like this? How did she get all those scars? What could her own family possibly have done to turn the happy, bright girl into the woman before me?