Page 22 of Realms of Swords and Storms (Empire of Vengeance #3)

A t first, I thought I'd dreamed it—a dull thud followed by a muffled curse. The moonlight cut through the shutters in thin silver blades across my small chamber. I'd been sleeping here for weeks now, avoiding Livia's bed, avoiding her questions. Avoiding myself.

Another sound—something scraping against wood.

I rose, reaching for the dagger I kept beneath my sleeping pallet. The stone floor was cold against my bare feet as I moved silently toward the door. Three years of military training had taught me how to move without making a sound.

When I opened my door, I saw a shadow staggering across the main room of the apartment. Moonlight caught on something wet on the floor—droplets that gleamed like black pearls in the dim light. Blood.

"Who's there?" I hissed, dagger raised.

The shadow froze, then turned. Moonlight caught the planes of a face I knew too well.

"Tarshi?" I lowered the blade slightly.

He was leaning heavily against the wall, one hand pressed to his thigh. Even in the darkness, I could see the dark stain spreading there.

"Go back to bed, Septimus," he said through gritted teeth.

I stepped closer, eyes adjusting to the gloom. "You're bleeding."

"Very observant," he snapped, then winced as he tried to put weight on his leg.

That's when I saw it—the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from his thigh. My stomach tightened.

"What in the gods' names have you done?" I demanded, though I already knew. The resistance. It had to be. He'd been doing their dirty work, risking not just his own neck but all of ours.

"I'm looking for bandages," he said, ignoring my question.

I moved closer, watching him struggle to remain upright. "Sit down before you fall down, you fool."

"I don't need your help."

As if to contradict him, his leg gave way, and he began to slide down the wall. I moved without thinking, catching him before he hit the floor. His body was hot against mine, feverish.

"What happened?" I asked, helping him to a chair.

"What do you think happened?" he snarled. "I was careless."

I examined the wound in the moonlight. The arrow had gone into the meat of his thigh, but the shaft had broken, leaving the head embedded. It needed to come out.

"You've been running errands for your resistance friends," I said. It wasn't a question.

His silence was answer enough.

"Do you have any idea what kind of danger you're putting Livia in?" I asked, anger rising in my chest. "If they find out her slave is involved in resistance activities—"

"Don't pretend this is about Livia," Tarshi cut me off, his voice tight with pain. "You’ve been avoiding her for weeks. Do you think she hasn’t noticed that you never go near her? That you can’t even meet her eyes anymore? You don’t care about her.”

His words were a blade, twisting in a wound I had tried to ignore.

A cold fury, directed as much at myself as at him, coiled in my gut.

“You know nothing about what I care for,” I snarled, my voice low and dangerous.

And yet, I had no defence, because he was right.

I’d seen the hurt in Livia’s eyes every time I made an excuse to sleep in this cramped antechamber instead of her bed.

"She thinks you don't love her anymore.”

I stared at him. “She said that?”

“Do you?” he asked, his teeth gritted. “Still love her?”

“Of course I love her, you bastard,” I bit out, the words tasting like ash. My anger was a shield for the shame that burned in my gut. “I just… I can't be with her after—" I stopped myself, but Tarshi's eyes were on me, seeing too much.

"After what?" he pressed. "After tainting yourself with my body?"

The words were ugly, but they were the ones I'd been thinking. I looked away.

"That's it, isn't it?" he said, his voice hoarse. "You can't stand that you wanted me. That you still do."

The accusation hung in the air between us, but before I could respond, he tried to stand and immediately collapsed. I caught him again, this time sliding his arm over my shoulders and taking as much of his weight as I could. He was fucking heavy.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Saving your worthless hide," I muttered. "Again."

I carried him to my chamber and laid him on my sleeping pallet. He was pale now, the pain and blood loss taking their toll. I lit an oil lamp and examined the wound more carefully.

"The arrow needs to come out," I said.

"I know that," he replied through clenched teeth. "Just do it."

I went to fetch what I needed—a knife, bandages, water, wine for cleaning. When I returned, Tarshi was shivering despite the sweat on his brow.

“This needs to come out,” I said, my voice flat as I pointed at the arrow. It was easier to focus on his wound than my own. “It’s going to hurt like a bastard.”

“Just get on with it,” he grunted, leaning his head back against the wall, his face pale in the moonlight.

I poured wine over the knife blade, then over the wound. Tarshi hissed but didn't cry out.

"Ready?" I asked.

He nodded, gripping the edges of the pallet.

I worked quickly, cutting away the broken shaft, then pushing the arrowhead through the other side of his thigh. Blood welled up, dark and thick. Tarshi made a sound between a growl and a whimper but remained still.

"Almost done," I murmured, surprised by the gentleness in my own voice.

I pulled the arrowhead free, then pressed clean cloth against both sides of the wound to stem the bleeding. Tarshi's eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing ragged.

"You're lucky," I said as I worked. "The arrow missed anything important. A finger width to the left and you'd be bleeding out in some alley instead of ruining my sleeping pallet."

"Sorry to inconvenience you," he gasped.

I lifted the cloth to check the bleeding. It was slowing. Good. I began to clean the wound properly.

"Where did you learn to do this?" Tarshi asked, his voice weak.

“Where else? The arena. When you’re a new recruit, Drusus didn’t bother to waste doctors’ fees on you till you’d proved you were worth the investment.”

I threaded a needle with gut string, my hands moving with a grim familiarity. Tarshi watched me, his dark eyes shadowed with pain.

I wrapped the bandages tight, my movements practiced and impersonal.

I tried to keep them that way. It was easier than admitting that the feel of his skin beneath my fingers, the heat of his body, was doing things to me I had sworn to bury.

His skin was hot beneath my fingers, the muscles of his thigh tensing at my touch.

The air in the small room was thick with the scent of wine and blood and his sweat.

"You have gentle hands for a killer," he murmured, his voice rough. I pulled back as if burned, grabbing the bloodied rags. "Don't mistake necessity for tenderness."

"I'm not," he said, his gaze unwavering. "You could have left me to bleed."

"Don't think I wasn't tempted," I shot back, but the words were hollow. We both knew I would never have left him. “This needs to stop, half-breed. I won’t have you putting her life in danger, and in their eyes, you belong to her. She is responsible for your actions.”

“She knows what I am, and she understands,” he replied.

“And what is that exactly?”

"I'm Talfen," he said simply. "I can't forget that, even when I want to."

I tied off the bandage, perhaps more roughly than necessary. "And that justifies risking everything? Sneaking out at night to do the bidding of rebels?"

His fever-bright eyes fixed on mine. "What would you have me do, Septimus? Pretend I don't see what's happening? Pretend I don't care when my people are treated like animals?"

"I would have you stay alive," I snapped, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice. "I would have you not bleed to death in the night."

Something shifted in his expression. "Why do you care if I live or die?"

The question caught me off guard. Why did I care? I should hate him. He was Talfen, he was a rebel, he was arrogant and insufferable and everything I'd been taught to despise. And yet...

"I don't know," I admitted, the honesty startling us both.

Tarshi's hand found mine, his fingers hot with fever. "Septimus—"

"You need to rest," I said, pulling away. "The fever will get worse before it gets better."

I moved to stand, but his hand caught my wrist.

"Wait," he said. "Thank you." His words hung in the air, a fragile truce in the war between us. I snatched my wrist back as if his touch were fire. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t get yourself killed. I’m not stitching you up again.”

I turned to douse the bloody rags in the water basin, needing to put my hands to a task, needing to break the pull of his gaze.

I moved to the small basin, washing the blood from my hands, the water turning pink in the lamplight.

My own reflection was a stranger's—a man with haunted eyes and a grim set to his mouth.

The small room felt suffocating, thick with the heat from his fever and the ghost of something that had passed between us in another life, another night.

“You’re afraid of her finding out about this,” he rasped, his voice raw. “Or about us?”

“There is no us,” I bit out, my back still to him. “There were mistakes. Moments of weakness.”

“Were they?” He coughed, a dry, ragged sound. “Felt more like moments of truth to me.”

I slammed the wet cloth down on the small table and spun to face him, my control finally snapping. “The truth? The truth is you’re a reckless fool who will get us all killed. The truth is you are everything I was raised to fight, to hate.”

He met my fury with a weary, knowing look that only stoked my rage further. “And yet, here you are.”

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the movement costing him a sharp intake of breath.

The bandages on his thigh were stark white against his tanned skin.

“You can’t stand to look at her because you feel like you’ve betrayed her,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“But you can’t stand to look at me because you know you haven’t. ”