He startled out of his thoughts when heavy footsteps echoed outside the infirmary door, and he tensed despite himself, adrenaline filling his limbs and pissing him off. Why did he still fear the gods damn bastard? Why did just the thought of being taken back to the dungeon send a cold sweat down his spine?

Trying to wipe the fear off his face so the bastard wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing it, he listened to the lock click and watched as the door slowly creaked open. For a moment, there was nothing, and then a thick-fingered hand curled around it, pushing it open just wide enough for a huge, bulk of a body to squeeze through.

Trey blinked, trying to understand what the fuck he was seeing as the broad-shouldered man eased it back shut, careful not to make too much noise. As if a man of his size had any hope of being quiet.

“Jen…sen?”

The visitor whipped around, his elbow smacking against the door with a loud thud. Cringing, he rubbed his elbow as his long-ass strides quickly ate the distance across the room.

“I don’t have long,” he said, coming to a stop at the foot of Trey’s cot. Fuck, it really was him. His voice was the same deep, raspy tone, laced with a lilt that always reminded Trey of home.

Although they’d both grown up in Southterres, Trey had never had much of an accent, but Brex Jensen’s was thick with a deep roll to it that had immediately made him the bullseye of many barrack taunts when they’d joined the guard.

When you constantly had to dress and act like one another, things like voices and hair were the only things left to talk shit on. It was why Jensen had learned to keep quiet around most, and why Vera had humorously assumed he didn’t speak at all.

What the fuck was he doing there? It should’ve filled him with hope, but all he felt was gut-wrenching panic as Jensen stood there, eyes dark, taking in his condition. Gods, Eithan would fucking kill him if he found him there. Or worse.

The very real possibility of hearing his childhood friend’s agonizing screams in a neighboring cell while their soulless prince did whatever sick shit he got off on had acid climbing up his throat. He squeezed his eye shut, blocking out Jensen’s tan, weathered face to avoid having a complete panic attack. He couldn’t let that happen.

Seconds ticked by, the room silent, and his body relaxed ever so slightly. Maybe he’d just imagined him. It wouldn’t be the first time his broken mind had conjured up something that wasn’t real. Maybe—

“You look like shit.”

His eye snapped open to find Jensen lumbering over him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, clearly pissed at being ignored. Gods damnit.

He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to wet the dry and cracked flesh, but he might as well have run sandpaper over them. “You need to leave.”