Wiping the last of the blood off the man’s chest, Kiva inspected his newly cleaned skin, taking in the considerable bruising across his abdomen. A kaleidoscope of color blossomed on his flesh, indicating that he’d taken more than one beating during his trip from Vallenia. But after some careful prodding, Kiva was confident there was no internal damage. A few deeper cuts would require her attention, but they weren’t enough to warrant the amount of blood that had coated him. With some relief, she was beginning to realize that the most grievous wounds must have belonged to his deceased companions, and perhaps he had attempted to save their lives by stemming the flow of blood, albeit in vain.

Or . . . perhaps he had been the one to kill them.

Not everyone sent to Zalindov was innocent.

Most weren’t.

With only a slight tremble to her fingers, Kiva turned her attention to the man’s face. Having focused on checking his vital organs before all else, she’d yet to clean away the blood and grime, so it remained thick enough to make it difficult to distinguish his features.

Once, she would have begun her work at his head, but she’d learned years ago that there was little she could do when it came to brain damage. It was better to focus on putting everything else back together and hope that the person in question awakened with their wits intact.

Peering from the man’s filthy face to the equally filthy water left in the pail, Kiva bit her lip as she weighed her options. The last thing she wanted was to make a request of the Butcher, but she needed fresh water to finish her work—not just to wash his face and hair, but to more adequately clean out his wounds before stitching them.

The patient must always come first, little mouse. Their needs before yours, every time.

Kiva exhaled quietly as her father’s voice came to her again, but this time the heartache was almost comforting, as if he were in the room with her, speaking right into her ear.

Knowing what he would do in her place, Kiva lifted the pail and turned toward the door. The Butcher’s pale eyes locked on to hers, dark anticipation spreading across his ruddy features.

“I need some—” Kiva’s quiet voice was cut off before she could finish her request.

“They want you back in the isolation block,” the amber-eyed guard said, appearing behind the Butcher and diverting his attention. “I’ll take over here.”

Without a word—but with a leering look thrown at Kiva that made her skin crawl—the Butcher spun on his heel and marched away, his boots crunching on the gravel path leading from the infirmary.