She had pegged them as Herron's men on the inside, and from the knowing way they'd spoken, she'd been right.
“What are you deciding?” The prisoner's voice was a croak, and he started to cough.
She said nothing, pushing herself to her feet and walking over to the jug with the small amount of water she had left for the day.
She poured it into the chipped wooden cup, wincing when it barely reached the halfway mark, and crouched beside him.
His arms were bruised and scraped, and there was one deep cut in his forearm which went down to the bone.
She averted her eyes, too cowardly to look carefully, and dropped to her knees, easing an arm around his bare shoulders so she could put the cup to his lips.
He glanced up at her, a quick look of surprise, before he lifted his less injured arm and grasped the cup himself, tipping it down his throat with a groan.
Even though the water had gone, he tipped it again, as if trying to find any drop of water left.
She watched his throat work, and felt despair drag her down.
She had to be hard. To think of herself.
And yet, wouldn't that mean they had won?
She sighed.
“What are you deciding?” he asked again in his raspy voice, and she glanced at him, found his eyes on her once again. He was watching her with the patience of a predator.
She eased back, heart beating a little faster, and was careful to guide his shoulders back to the ground gently.
She had been around predators her whole life.
She dusted her knees as she stood.
“Nothing,” she answered at last, refusing to articulate her quandary.
She glanced from him in his half-naked state to the bed, and felt a surge of anger at Herron and his lackeys.
The temperature down here bordered on icy, and they had stripped their prisoner almost naked.
But feeling angry about it wasn't going to solve anything, and the prisoner was as much their victim as she was. More, by the look of his injuries.
“Who are you?” His voice was still rough and scratchy.
“Ava.” She had her back to him, standing next to her bed. She pulled off the thicker of the two blankets and lay it on the ground beside him. “You?”
“Luc.” There was an edge of amusement in his voice. “What . . . are you doing?”
“Making you a bed on the floor. I can't pick you up, but maybe you can pull yourself over?”
He must have been freezing on the cold stone floor, because he used his arms to pull himself onto the blanket with what looked like a massive effort.
She felt the quick, hard knock of her heart when his face turned a strange gray color, and he collapsed.
She crouched next to him, touching his shoulder, but he was no longer conscious. His skin was hot to the touch, and smooth under her fingers.
His hair was dark—a true black—and cut in the same short style as the Kassian soldiers. His chest was heavy with muscle, and she stared at the dark hair that arrowed down a flat, ridged stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.
He was magnificent, but now was not an appropriate time to admire him.
“Are you all right?” She rocked his shoulder, trying to rouse him, but she barely moved him.
And of course he wasn't all right.
She heard Banyon's shuffling step approach and curled around her knees, eyes closed tight shut.
She needed more time to decide!
She turned toward the door, and her knee knocked Luc's bruised shoulder. He gave a quiet groan in his sleep.
Stricken, she opened her eyes and rose up, standing with feet apart. Her escape plan hung over the door, waiting.
She stayed where she was as Banyon peered through the bars to check he could see her, and then rattled the keys as he opened up.
He only opened the door a little way, and swung the bucket of water in with a thump.
Then he left it open a crack as he shuffled away and then back.
He extended a jug and a plate and Ava hopped over Luc to take them, standing in the opening he'd created and looking him directly in the face.
“Thank you, warden.”
His rheumy eyes were leaking at the corners, and he had a light sheen of sweat on his face from carrying the bucket. “Share with the prisoner. They want him alive. Maybe they'll reward you if you fix 'im up.”
They both knew that would never happen, but she bowed her head in acquiescence.
He peered at her carefully, then pulled the old sheet he had slung over his shoulder off, holding it in front of him like a shield. “This was all I could find.”
Banyon tossed it through the doorway onto Luc, as if by not directly handing it to her, he somehow absolved himself of his kindness. “For bandages,” he said, and then shut the door in her face.
She leaned against the door for a moment, looking up at the stone poised and ready to come down on his head, and felt a tear leak down her cheek.
She straightened, using the back of her hand to brush the moisture away, and pushed down every raging emotion. It would do her no good right now.
She put the plate and jug on the table before she hefted the bucket closer to Luc. The water was cold, but there was a lot of it.
She lifted the sheet to her nose and sniffed. It smelled a little musty, as if it had been in a damp cupboard, but was otherwise clean.
She began ripping long strips off it for bandages and used a few of them to clean the scrapes and slices in his arms and shoulders.
When she got to the very deep cut on his forearm, she sat for a long minute, staring at it.
She had only sewn flesh once before—her own—and though she couldn't see the scar above her eyebrow, her finger traced the spot. Her skin felt smooth there, as if the deep cut had never happened.
She had no mirror, so she didn't know how well it had healed.
She lifted her hands to her head, and then hesitated, looking toward the door.
Too paranoid to continue where she could be observed, she moved to the side of the door, lowering to her haunches. It would be impossible for anyone outside looking in to see her.
She burrowed her fingers in her short, dark hair.
Banyon had been slack lately, and her hair actually had a little length to it, now, rather than the shorn look she was used to. Long enough that she'd been able to weave her hidden needle into the strands, in case they checked her clothes again.
She got hold of the needle and pulled it out, tugging a little when it wouldn't come until a few strands came away at the roots.
Eyes smarting from the pain, her fingers shook a little as she unwound the single thread she'd hidden with the needle. The black silk was already threaded through the fine, silver needle's eye, ready to be used at a moment's notice.
She stared at it.
It was the only thread she had left.
She had thought all of it was gone, until one day she'd found a short strand of it caught between the mattress and the sheet on her bed.
She'd kept it safe ever since, and had only used a little for the tiny stitches she’d put in her neckline to protect her from poison.
She made her decision and then committed herself fully, hunching over as she crawled to Luc, back to the door. Even if Banyon was pressed right up against it, looking in, he wouldn't be able to see what she was doing.
She clamped Luc's arm between her knees and began sewing.
As the needle pierced his skin, he came to with a cry and a jerk.