When finally it seemed like there was nothing left in him, Kiva helped him lie back down, handing the pail to Tipp, who was quick to disappear out the door with it.

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, his voice even weaker than before, his face now alarmingly pale.

“Stop apologizing,” Kiva told him, before checking herself. He could apologize or not, that was his prerogative. What he said and did was none of her business.

Kiva spared a glance at Naari, finding the guard halfway between the door and the man, as if she didn’t know whether he was a threat or not. Given that he couldn’t even sit upright at the moment, Kiva wasn’t concerned, and the look she sent Naari communicated as much. The guard didn’t back away, but her shoulders lost some of their tension.

“I’ll be quick with this, then give you something for the pain,” Kiva said. “After that, you can get out of here.”

Swiftly cleaning the wound again—and grateful that the young man kept his eyes closed as she did so—Kiva hovered over him, inspecting the cut, considering how best to stitch it. When Tipp returned with the newly cleaned pail, she quietly instructed him to fetch some fresh clothes and watched him run off again.

Aware that no matter how she closed the wound, it was going to sting, Kiva said, “Try to stay still. This’ll hurt a little.”

The man’s eyes shot open, blue-gold meeting Kiva’s green, causing her to suck in a swift breath. Seconds . . . minutes . . . she wasn’t sure how long had passed until she finally tore her gaze away, focusing anew on his cut. His eyes remained on her face—she could feel him watching her as she pressed the needle into his flesh.

The slightest of winces, that was his only reaction.

Her heart, however . . . It was pumping double time as she began her sutures.

In, out, around, knot.

In, out, around, knot.

In, out, around, knot.

Kiva let the familiar rhythm steady her, aware all the while that the young man was watching her. If that was what it took for him to keep from flinching, then she could deal with her own discomfort.

“Nearly done,” she told him, as she would any of her patients.

“It’s fine.” He paused, then added, “You’re very good at that. I can barely feel it.”

“She’s had p-plenty of practice,” Tipp said, reappearing at her side. Kiva gave a slight jerk, but fortunately she wasn’t in the middle of a stitch.

“Tipp, what’d I say about—”

“Sorry! Sorry!” he said. “I always forget how j-jumpy you are.”

She wasn’t jumpy; she was in the middle of a death prison. That was more than enough of an excuse to be on edge.

“Done,” Kiva said, snipping the last stitch and smearing on the ballico sap. “Help him sit up, Tipp.”