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I unraveled the bandages he had wrappedâseemingly by himself, because it was an unfathomably horrible job. Too tight in some places, loose in others, the linen already blotched through with dried rust-red.
He hadn't even tried to clean the wounds properly.
The more I pulled away, the more my chest ached. Slashes cut deep across his ribs, jagged like claws had tried to carve him apart. Bruises spread in ugly patches across pale skin, turning him into a canvas of violence. His body was a battlefield.
"You call this treatment?" I whispered, the words sharp because if I let them tremble, I'd break. "You'd scold anyone else for leaving their wounds like this."
His gaze lowered, unreadable, but I felt it heavy on me all the same. "It doesn't matter."
"It doesn't matter," I mimicked in a feigned deep voice.
I guess it got to him because his gaze snapped to me, blue eyes frosty.