“But Tipp doesn’t have your delightful people skills,” Jaren replied with a grin, grabbing the hem of his tunic and pulling it over his head before promptly lying on the bench.

Kiva noted the differences in his body with a professional eye. The bruising on his abdomen had faded significantly, now only a slight greenish-yellow tinge remaining. He’d lost a little weight, but that was expected. His muscle mass was still good, perhaps even greater than when he’d first arrived, especially in his arms and torso, but again, that was normal, given his arduous work allocation.

“What’s the verdict, prison healer? Am I dying today?”

Kiva stopped her examination only to find his gaze on her. While she hadn’t been admiring him in any way, warmth crept into her cheeks, as if she’d been caught ogling him. Appalled by her unfounded reaction, she answered, “The day’s not over yet.”

His abdominal muscles rippled as he chuckled, and Kiva gritted her teeth, reaching for her supplies.

“Hold still,” she said as she began to cut away the stitches. The wounds had healed perfectly, and she cleaned them as she went, leaving behind healthy pink flesh.

When she was done with Jaren’s front and asked him to turn over onto his stomach, he hesitated. Kiva guessed it was in reaction to the scars on his back, but she’d already seen those. Jaren seemed to remember this and did as she’d asked, though with noticeable reluctance.

Unable to curb her curiosity, while Kiva snipped away at the stitches she’d placed on his right shoulder blade, she commented, “I see a lot of scars, but these ones are interesting.”

She brushed a finger over one of the welts, and Jaren tensed beneath her.

Kiva knew it was none of her business, and yet she couldn’t keep from asking, “What caused them?”

The silence that fell was so heavy that Kiva was sure Jaren wasn’t going to answer. But he surprised her when he finally said, “Belt buckles, mostly. Some are from fingernails, one or two from a wooden cane or a broken vase. I think one’s even from the spine of a book. Whatever was in easy reach at the time.”

Kiva’s hands froze. “You mean— Did someone—”

“You see a lot of scars, remember?” Jaren interrupted. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked.”

Kiva didn’t know what to say, so she continued snipping at the stitches, moving on to the next wound. Yes, she saw plenty of scars, but the ones similar to Jaren’s were always from a whip of some kind, as punishment for errant behavior. Even Kiva had three lines of scars on her back from a lashing she’d received during her early years at Zalindov—the first and only time she’d refused to carve someone’s flesh. What Jaren was saying, though . . . it sounded like . . .