“They’re not, and ultimately, it’s your choice,” he says. “But if you don’t let me teach you how to heal, I’ll make sure you’re out of the competition.”

His voice is hard. I don’t know how he’d stop me, but I know this is not an idle threat. I nod.

He strides toward me, steady and unwavering. Kneeling in the sand, he gestures for me to do the same. Even though the warmth of the day has long worn off it, the sand cushions my knees. My bones relax into it, almost begging me to just lie down there and find some sleep. I fight to stay upright.

Roman braces my shoulder for a moment, sensing my impending toppling.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

For a moment, I think he’s apologizing for working me until I’m near dropping, but then he reaches for one of his knives at his wrist. Of course. To teach me to heal, I need to bleed first. My mouth turns dry like I’ve been guzzling salt water all day. I can’t sit still long enough to let him stab me. I don’t need to know how to heal. I need to be careful.

He notices my response and hesitates, then puts the knife he’s drawn back in its sheath. He can’t do it either. I hold my sigh of relief as he unstraps his entire sheath of knives.

We sit knee to knee in the sand, and I let him pull my limp hand from my lap into his, then place his knives against my forearm and buckle the two leather straps to hold them there before putting my arm back on my own legs. The leather is soft on my skin, the knives the faintest weight.

“These belong to you now.”

I gape at them—the worn brown leather, the fine pearl handles that catch and hold the moonlight. Exquisite. Personal. Too personal. They look like a family heirloom. He still wears the matching set on his other arm.

“Why?” It pops out of my mouth instead of thank you. Two hard words for me.

“You need better knives,” he says simply, pulling out another from his remaining sheath. He doesn’t pause to create the awkward silence sometimes used to manipulate a thank-you, just moves on like he doesn’t need or want the words from me.

It must be why they’re off my tongue before I can stop them. “Thank you.”

He raises his head to look me in the eyes for a moment, then moves back to examining the slim blade he holds between us. “These blades are narrower than the ones you’ve been using. The wounds heal faster. Give me your hand.”

“I don’t think so.”