Page 38 of Red Demon (Oria #1)

This broken woman was a fucking mess. Terrifying as she may be in a fight, she had a mind like wormy duck shit. I thought she’d been leading the center of some vast rebel conspiracy. At best, she was a weapon.

There’d be a hand. Someone in control.

Her breathing calmed. Her face steeled. She wiped her tears away with what appeared like disgust. “If I can get you to the fire, can you start it?”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. She helped me over.

“I’m going to get some firewood. Breakfast.” Her eyes trailed over my bandages in cold assessment before she left.

Faruhar came back to the cave in a much better mood, humming as she added ingredients for more venison stew to the pot.

She washed her hands, then rummaged through old jars on the shelf, sniffing them and making faces.

“I couldn’t find more plantain for your wounds.

Hoping I can find something useful in here, but it’s all old. ”

“Is this where you live?”

“No.” She pulled up a few dried flowers from a clay jar with her tweezers, squinting. After sniffing it, she grabbed another jar instead. She accepted whatever she found in that one, pulling it onto the side table.

“So who lives here?”

“No one, anymore.” She sprinkled some herbs into a cup. “Asri rebels used to use it until the empire got to them, killed off tunnels in this area. It will take a while for Oria to grow back. Bria helped me find it.”

“Who?”

She clenched her jaw. “My sister.” She stirred, added a pinch of something white and powdery, tasted and adjusted. At last, she was satisfied.

“Drink.” She brought me a hot cup to where I sat in a chair, my legs propped awkwardly on a low crate.

I sniffed the pungent brew, closing my eyes tight.

“Keep healing. You’ll have plenty of time to die when I’m not looking.”

I tipped the cup to my lips, taking a slow, bitter sip.

“Down it fast. It gets slimy as it gets cold.”

The next sip was more difficult than the last, the sour taste building. I slumped halfway through, but got the work done.

“Good. Let’s check your wounds.”

She placed a warm hand over my heart, pressing, listening to the rhythm.

I studied the scars on her chin, trying to find the line I cut, healed over among the rest. Maybe it was the herbs that had me transfixed by the design of those thin scars over her skin—that had me not wanting to claw back her hand from my body.

She stepped back, her fingers brushing against the edge of the loose fabric over my broken ribs. I tensed, but her touch was light, hesitant.

“Relax,” she said. “You have honor, remember? Even if I’m close enough for you to strangle.”

I exhaled, torn somewhere between suspicion and vulnerability.

Faruhar turned to kneel behind me, her long hair tickling my skin as she untied a clasp on the linen.

I leaned forward to accommodate her as she unwrapped the bandage with a gentle rustle.

The warmth of her breath stirred the hairs on my arm, the studs on her chest armor chilled the skin on my back as she leaned in.

The room seemed to shrink as the last of the fabric came off in her hands, the only sounds her breathing and the erratic thump of my heart.

I awaited her verdict.

“You’re healing too fast for a sedo , even if you mostly smell like one.” Her finger hovered over the broken skin above my lungs, then my bruised and once dislocated shoulder.

Sedo , it literally meant dying in archaic Asri, what the Attiq-ka called mortals. I did not know how to respond to that, but I inhaled, hoping to find something to insult in return. Earth, sweat, and perhaps something more floral in the mix. Nothing I could hate.

She reached into a pouch at her waist and pulled out a small vial, opening the jar to reveal something white and half-translucent.

Faruhar dipped two fingers into the jar and brought them to my shoulder and down my ribs.

I shivered at the touch. Then, she brought up some clean bandages, stained but hand-washed, guiding my hands to hold the fabric firm to my chest as she began wrapping.

Her touch lingered a moment, tracing Asher’s scar across my heart, tying the bandage tight.

“There,” she said finally, stepping back. “If those splints hold, I’d say a few more days, a week until you can care for yourself again.”

“What?” It had taken me about two months to heal from far less.

“Will you accept my help that long?”

I stuttered. “Yes.” I guess that healing speed didn’t seem odd to her. Even with the best medicine, it should be.

“Great, my sister wants me to hurry this up. I’ll restock what I can and take off as soon as I know you won’t die.”

Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to speak. “Is your sister the one who tells you who to kill?”

Faruhar picked up the dirty bandages. “She’s none of your business.”

I huffed, the force painful on my wrapped chest. “Anyone who had a hand in killing the people I love is my business. Who do you work with?”

She shook her head out with a nervous laugh, removing the blanket on my legs, starting to unwind the fabric around my splinted leg.

“Don’t you fucking say you don’t remember. You must know that much.” I crossed my arms, glaring. “Who is Bria?”

“If you still want to die, keep talking about her. Maybe we can work something out.” She met my gaze with defiance until her eyes flicked down to my bare groin.

Nope, no bandages there. I stared back, unshaken until she looked away. Embarrassed, I hope.

She hustled across the room, grabbing a handful of fabric and throwing it hard at my lap.

“Ow!” I unfurled the unfamiliar fabric to see an oversized set of drawstring pants, worn and moth-eaten, but clean. But unlike what I had on when I challenged her, these were loose enough to fit over the splints on my legs.

“What do you mean ‘ow’? It’s just flax,” she said.

“So are riding crops, and I’d prefer those off my groin.”

She snorted. “As masochistic as you were when you fought me, that’s a surprise.”

My mouth fell open at the bemused twinkle in her eyes. “There’s something really wrong with you.”

That crushed her smirk. “I know.”

My hand covered my heated face.

“I’m terrible at talking to people. I’m sorry.

” Her words tumbled out. “Just keep reminding me how much you hate me, and I’ll remember to say as little as possible.

” She let out a nervous chuckle and wiped the hair out of her eyes.

“I’m going to go look for some more herbs.

See if you can get your pants on without breaking a bone. Then stir that stew, please.”

She gathered her weapons and moved toward the door. I got a twinge of a headache just looking at her. The fear, anger and hate I once thought limitless sputtered in the space between us, replaced by a sharp sense of who-the-fuck-knows-what.

“Thank you,” I said, failing to keep those words caged.