I want to stay alert, but my body rebels. The horses start and the bumps of the road draw out every ache and tired muscle. My eyes slip shut. I shake myself, but it happens again…

…and I wake to night. Pippa sits across from me, eyes tracing the stars. Lights glow in the corners of our carriage. Everything else waits in shadow. We’re not moving anymore. The officials are gone. I reach for my face and groan as the motion tugs one of my wounds.

Pippa’s eyes find me. She drinks me in and an unexpected emotion flashes over her face. I watch as she reaches down into her bag. I’m only half awake, but the movement has me on guard. It’s not a knife, though. She pulls out bandages. The look she’s giving me is the same look most people reserve for dying animals. In her eyes, I’m a broken thing.

“I was waiting until you woke up,” she says, still picking through medical supplies. “It’s dishonorable not to treat your wounds. I wanted to wait until I could ask for your permission.”

I stare back at her. “How do I know you won’t poison me?”

That drags a laugh from her lips. The smile on her face is not the one she flashes in her interviews. It’s less forced somehow, more honest.

“The Races are over, Adrian. What would be the point of poisoning you now?”

The reality behind those words thunders through me. She thinks this is the end. This was only ever a race to her. It didn’t stand for something bigger and brighter. It was not the collective dream of her people. No, it was a bright crown to add to her pile of gold. She has no idea that a war might be coming or that the two of us could be leading armies against one another.

It takes a few seconds to process everything. I nod permission.

“It does hurt like hell.”

Her lips slip into another smile. “Sit back.”

I watch as she wets a rag and dabs it with antiseptic. She gestures for my right arm, but raising it even slightly drags another groan out of me. Pippa slides across the carriage instead. The light dances across her features. I stare straight ahead and pretend I can’t feel the heat of her knee pressed against mine. She gently takes my right arm and starts to scrub carefully at the wounds. Her dark brows knit together as she works.

“Stop flexing,” she says.

“I’m not flexing.”

She rolls her eyes and keeps working. When most of the packed dirt and dust have been wiped clean, she twists around to grab a needle and thread. Her dark eyes lock on mine.

“Do you want me to stitch them?” When I nod, she lifts a questioning eyebrow. “I’m being serious. If you complain, I’m not going to do it.”