I stood shirtless in my quarters, one knee propped on the low bench, towel in my teeth, trying to reach the wound with a damp cloth and absolutely no grace.

“Gods above,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Why are the worst wounds always where your own damn hands won’t reach?”

The blood had started to dry now. It stuck like guilt.

One of the silk curtains fluttered, breeze slipping in through the high window. Everything smelled like roses and old books in here — probably Kaelen’s fault. I hated that it was starting to feel like home.

My back screamed as I twisted again, cloth in one hand, bandage in the other.

“Okay, okay. C’mon, you’ve disarmed traps in the rain with worse odds. You can do this.” I spoke to myself. Again. Because talking to myself was more productive than talking to Lucien, who would’ve given me a metaphor, or Veyr, who would’ve offered to stitch me up just to get close enough to slit my throat.

Kaelen might’ve actually done it properly. But Kaelen would also give me a three-paragraph lecture on “recklessness and royal protocol.”