Page 10 of Dynasty of the Wicked (The Wicked Princess #1)

10

The army continued to entertain themselves, dance, and play their vicious tournament-style game with the rest of the prisoners of war—Zhi Ruo hadn’t even realized there were others. The Huo soldiers must have been newer prisoners, because they didn’t appear emaciated or as dirty as her or Feng Mian. Thankfully, since Feng Mian was injured, they didn’t force him to fight anymore. She figured he was too valuable as a prisoner.

By the end of the spectacle, all the other prisoners were dead, either from the arrows lodged in their bodies or from fighting the Kadians with flimsy sticks.

Zhi Ruo and Feng Mian were tossed back in their cages for the night. Feng Mian groaned, his body slumped over the barred wall of the cage. His entire sleeve was drenched in scarlet.

A single lantern sat in the center of the tent just outside their cage, casting orange flickering light across the threadbare walls. Zhi Ruo rose up to her feet to go over to Feng Mian, but she flinched back when he snarled, “Don’t look at me.”

She hesitated, watching him with worried eyes. Was he angry that the Kadians had killed the old man instead of him?

His head fell forward and his long, silvery-white hair obscured his face, but he made no move to push it back.

Zhi Ruo slowly sank onto the floor. “Feng Mian, are you … angry with me?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“Just … just leave me alone.” He passed a hand over his face, cursing loudly.

She ran her fingers over the frayed skirts of her dress and outlined the lotus embroidery etched into the fabric. For a moment, they both sat there, unmoving and silent, but then Feng Mian’s breathing grew shallower and he moaned in pain again. This time, Zhi Ruo crawled over to him. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and he hissed in pain, eyes snapping open.

“ Don’t touch me .”

“Sorry—” Zhi Ruo snatched her hand away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, the light dancing over half his face, while the other half was covered in shadows. Zhi Ruo hesitated, torn between trying to help him and keeping her distance.

Finally, she rested her hands on her lap. “You’re hurt. Let me see.”

“No.”

“You need?—”

“Medical attention?” He barked a mirthless laugh. “You think these bastards care about that?”

“Let me see your wound.” Her lips pursed together. “ They might not care, but I do.”

His voice came out in a harsh rasp. “Why?”

“Because—” The words died on her tongue. She wanted to tell him that they were married now, even if it was a magical bond, or that they had kissed and it must have meant something, but even that sounded stupid. They didn’t know each other, and she didn’t know this side of him.

“Because I do,” she finally settled with, touching his blood-stiffened sleeve. “Now put your ego elsewhere and let me see your wound.”

He frowned, but didn’t push her away as she slowly rolled up the sleeve to examine his bicep. His large body tensed as the bloody material stuck to his flesh. Ugly veins of black slithered all the way up his arm, pulsing angrily, but she tried to ignore the curse as she pushed the material of his sleeve up to his shoulder. His face was white as snow and his uninjured hand gripped the bar of the cage so tightly his knuckles were bloodless.

The stab wound was deep and ugly, the gash oozing with fresh blood every time he moved, while most of it was crusted over the separated flesh. Zhi Ruo’s stomach tightened at the sight.

“You need stitches,” she whispered, her hands trembling.

“That’s not going to happen.” Feng Mian leaned his head against the bars with a thwunk . He breathed out deeply and sweat dotted his pale forehead. “Just leave me?—”

“I’m not leaving you alone.” Zhi Ruo rose to her feet and went toward the entrance of the cage.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting help.” She banged against the bars, creating a rattling noise. “Hey! You Kadian soldiers! I know you’re out there guarding us!”

Feng Mian hissed something to her, but she wasn’t hearing any of it. She kept shouting until a guard poked his head through the flap of the tent, his brows pulled together in anger. It was the young guard from yesterday, the one who had helped the old man.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“We need medical supplies.” Zhi Ruo stood her ground and stared at the man levelly. She tried to make her voice as authoritative as possible. “He needs his arm checked out.”

The soldier laughed. “Good luck with?—”

“If he dies, you’ll have no valuable prisoner other than me.” She motioned to Feng Mian, who had gone still. “He’s the son of a famous and notable general in the Huo army. Do you really think you’ll get another valuable prisoner like that? If he dies, you lose that. He needs medical attention.”

The soldier hesitated and she could see he was considering it, so she continued, “He needs to be treated now. If he keeps bleeding or if he gets an infection, then he will die. You understand, right? You would lose a prisoner?—”

“All right, all right.” The man shoved the flap of the tent closed, and Zhi Ruo waited with bated breath. A few minutes later, the soldier returned with a pitcher and a basket of supplies. He thrust the pitcher through the bars, the water sloshing over the rim and spilling on her feet. He tilted the basket sideways and pushed that through as well.

“The physician is busy with other people,” the man said, shooting a hard look at Feng Mian. He was no doubt busy stitching up the soldiers Feng Mian had beaten up during the spectacle. “Take this and stop bothering me.”

Zhi Ruo scrambled to grab the pitcher and the supplies as the soldier cursed at her and stormed out.

She kneeled in front of Feng Mian, carefully placed the pitcher on the floor and rummaged through the supplies. There was a wad of bandages, a rag, some thread and needle, and a yellowish, earthy-smelling powder with flecks of crushed, dried leaves mixed together in a wooden bowl.

“What is this?” She felt the powder between her fingers. “Powdered herbs, maybe?”

Feng Mian nose crinkled. “Smells like shit.”

“It doesn’t.” Zhi Ruo sniffed the earthy, bitter powder, and frowned at it. Most of the medicinal salves in the Huo empire were thick and oil-based, not powdery. Or at least, not that she was aware of. But the plant-life in Huo was completely different than in Kadios, whose lands were more mountainous and drier. “It smells like medicine.”

“Am I supposed to eat it? Mix it with water or …?”

“I think”— She sniffed it again—“it’s supposed to be mixed with water to create a salve.”

“You think ? That doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

Zhi Ruo poured water onto the rough rag and, without warning, pressed it against his arm. Feng Mian jolted in pain, a string of curses escaping his mouth as she slowly cleaned the wound. The night air enveloped them in a cool embrace as she ran the now-pink cloth over the wound again. Reddish water dripped onto the floor of the cage and Feng Mian’s face was pinched together in pain.

“Stop being so angry at me,” Zhi Ruo said, cleaning the wound carefully. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

He gritted his teeth together, turning away.

“I understand you’re angry that … that the old man was killed by someone other than you, or that you were?—”

“You think that’s why I’m mad?”

She stilled, staring over at him with wide eyes.

A muscle on his jaw jumped. He opened his mouth to speak, clamped it shut, and then tried again, his rage barely suppressed. “I have always been a spectacle to everyone . A failure and disappointment to my father. A jest for my sisters and a blind fool to my peers. They have all treated me like an exhibition, waiting for me to fail in front of their eyes. I never wanted you to see that too. For my worth to be diminished into … that .”

“Feng Mian—” Her chest tightened at his painful words. She needed him to understand that she would never see him that way. That he wasn’t a spectacle to her. That he was much more than that.

“ Don’t .” His lips curled back as he growled, “Don’t pity me. Not you.”

“I don’t pity you.” She lowered the cloth. “I would never pity you.”

She was silent as she cleaned his wound. She didn’t know what to say to make him feel better, so she remained silent. They weren’t close enough for her to know how he liked to be comforted.

“I’m sorry,” Zhi Ruo whispered once the wound was clean. She plopped the wet cloth beside her and reached for the needle.

“Sorry for what?” he breathed.

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that.” She tightened her hold on the needle as she remembered him fighting those soldiers, how they had laughed at him and kicked him. How he had been severely outnumbered. How they had made a show out of him.

And she hated that he had gone through something similar when he was younger. It was true that nobody in Huo society would favor anyone who had a disability. She could imagine how they must have laughed at him.

Feng Mian pressed his lips together into a straight line and said nothing.

She tried slipping the coarse thread into the narrow opening of the needle, but her hands trembled and she had to stop several times to just breathe. She had never stitched someone’s flesh together, and she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to do it now either. She had learned some basic stitching as a child, but would she be able to pull the needle through his skin and muscle? The thought nauseated her.

Feng Mian suddenly reached out and grasped her hand.

Zhi Ruo lifted her head to find him staring in her direction. “I’ll get to it—” she started.

“Breathe. It’ll be okay.”

Zhi Ruo’s breath caught in her throat.

“It’s not that difficult. Just think of it like sewing a handkerchief.”

“I …” She nodded, but then remembered he couldn’t see that motion. “Yes.”

She crept even closer to him, toward his body warmth, and positioned herself beside his arm. She released a shuddered breath and placed the point of the needle against the gash, her fingers quivering.

“Can you talk to me?” Zhi Ruo asked, lowering the needle. “I just need something to distract myself. Like … how do you fight so well?”

“Hm? Practice.” He flexed his fingers while she placed the needle’s point against his arm. “I trained my ass off. That’s how. But that’s probably not what you’re asking.”

“No, I’m not.” She exhaled and poked the needle into his flesh. He stiffened at the contact. She wanted to ask him about his father, his siblings, and what he had gone through, but she knew he wouldn’t open up to her. She also didn’t want to tell him about her own traumas, about her own feelings of failure. It was better to distract him with other thoughts.

“I can feel things.” Feng Mian’s white lashes lowered to touch his cheeks. “I can tell that you’re in front of me. I can tell that there are three guards outside this tent. I can tell that five feet in that direction”—he pointed to his left with his uninjured arm— “is a man.”

Zhi Ruo pulled the needle out. One stitch down, many more to go. “So,” she murmured, gaze fixated on the blood seeping from the wound, “you use magic for that? To sense people, I mean.”

“Sort of. It’s hard to explain.” Feng Mian sighed and his warm breath tickled her face. “I was born blind, but for a long time I’ve been able to feel the things around me. I can feel the life energy of all living things. And when I spread my energy around me, I can get a read on my surroundings.”

Another stitch down. Her fingers stopped shaking. “Are there limitations?”

“Of course. For example, I might know that there’s a wall of some sort in front of me, but I have no idea if it’s sturdy or flimsy, or if there're weapons hooked to it or not. I might know that there’s a hill in front of me, but I don’t know if it’s a natural hill, a hill of corpses, or rocks. I can get an understanding of my surroundings, but not that well. I’m still blind, after all. But that’s where I use my other senses.”

Zhi Ruo was so focused on the next stitch so she didn’t notice Feng Mian lift his hand until he grazed her cheek with calloused fingers. She gasped, eyes flying to his face. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe as his finger trailed over to her ear, his touch feathery light and his expression … tender. Like he was exploring her slowly.

“Like touch,” he whispered.

Zhi Ruo’s face flushed with heat and she was sure he could feel it against his hand.

“Did you finish the stitches?”

“Err, uh.” She blinked back, trying to focus on the wound once more. She had only done four stitches so far, and by the looks of it, he would need maybe ten. “No, I still have a few to do. You can keep talking. About, um, your magic.”

“I can sense living creatures like it’s second nature, but the rest of my surroundings take more concentration, so I don’t do it all the time.” He traced her jaw and a shiver ran down her spine. It was getting harder to concentrate on his words and the task at hand. “But when I’m on the battlefield, I have to focus on all my senses. Touch, smell, sounds.”

Now his fingers were on her hair, where he rubbed a strand between his fingers slowly—sensually.

“Do inanimate objects have an energy about them?” she asked, adding another stitch with shaking hands. This time, it wasn’t from nervousness, but something else. She spoke quickly, as if the sparse moment of clarity would be lost in seconds. “Is that why you can, um, sense if there’s a wall or not?”

Feng Mian shook his head. “Only living creatures emit life energy. Everything else—like walls or houses or arrows—don’t emit anything, but when I spread my magic, I know there’s something there.”

“Oh, I see—” She inhaled sharply when he placed a hand against her collarbone, with his fingers lightly pressing the side of her neck. “What are you doing?”

“Using my sense of touch.” He titled his head to the side, his silken hair spilling over his shoulder with the motion. “I want to know what you feel like.”

“What I—” A blush spread over her face. Did he mean … in that way?

No, that couldn’t be it. He wasn’t interested in her like that.

She turned her attention back to his injury and tried to focus despite the fluttering of butterflies in her lower belly. She shifted on her numbing legs and leaned closer toward the partially sewn wound. “Feng Mian, let me focus, all right? I’m almost done.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

Zhi Ruo finished the rest of the stitches while Feng Mian rubbed his thumb over her collarbone in gentle circles. Maybe he needed something to focus on, she thought as she cut the end of the thread with her teeth. She was glad he couldn’t see how much she was blushing.

“I don’t let people touch me casually,” she said as she mixed water into the bowl of powder. Her voice was soft and quiet, and the only other sounds were his ragged breaths and the flickering flame in the lantern. “You touch me too much.”

“Do you dislike it?”

Zhi Ruo mixed the salve with her fingers, before smearing the concoction over the fresh stitches. His body tensed under her touch. “No.”

Feng Mian canted his head and the orange lantern light caused his silvery eyes to appear almost white. “No?”

“No.” She didn’t elaborate and instead bound his wound with the bandages and sat back, away from him. She didn’t want him to realize just how much her heart was pounding in her chest, how wild her emotions were around him. Just the admission that she didn’t dislike his touch sent a ripple of excitement through her.

She waited for him to reach forward for her, for him to maybe grasp her with his strong hands, to do something since she had admitted she enjoyed being with him. But he didn’t do anything, only sat there, his attention planted on the floor.

Minutes passed, and then he laid down, his back to her. “Thank you.”

She blinked at him, her heart sinking.

Had he just … rejected her?

Zhi Ruo slowly eased herself onto the pile of hay littered between them. Her eyes stung and her throat felt thick with emotion. She didn’t know what to think, or what to feel. He confused her, more than anything. He was always touching her, pulling her onto his lap, kissing her, and now … nothing ?

She didn’t know what to think, so she turned away from him and curled into a ball. Maybe it was better this way.