“Of course,” Wesley said. “Anything.”
Aern nodded. “Your gift will be the most valuable warning we could have. I’d be remiss if I didn’t take advantage of it.” He reached for Wesley’s arm, adding, “I know it’s been a long day. Get some rest; we can work out the details later.”
Wesley hesitated, though he couldn’t be sure exactly why. He trusted Aern and Emily, knew they only wanted to protect Brianna and the Seven Lines, but this seemed like a trespass. Or more importantly, like an accusation. He didn’t think he was actually suspicious of Brianna, but he didn’t understand what was happening, why she’d not shared such an important detail about her connection to the dark-haired man. Though he’d not broached the subject with Logan, he couldn’t deny the desire to do so with Aern, if for nothing else than to learn more about their bond.
“What is it, Wes?”
His eyes fell to the floor before meeting Aern’s again. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he said.
Aern waited patiently while Wesley decided the best approach. Emily, not so much. She stared at him, unblinking, brows raised, only heightening the boy’s unease. The corner of Aern’s mouth lifted the tiniest fraction, and he tightened his grip on her fingers. “Would you like to discuss this somewhere more private, Wesley?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Brianna
Brianna had a vague recollection of the events that followed her meeting with the dark-haired man. She recalled being jostled across the devastation that was the Council lawn, waking briefly in Logan’s arms. She had felt his murmured words, the dampness of a cloth being brushed over her skin as he’d washed away the blood and cleaned the dirt from her wounds. She had stood before her bed, lifting her arms as Logan slid what remained of the filth-covered shirt from her chest, and fallen into the soft, warm sheets as he tucked the comforter around her overtaxed body. But she didn’t know how much time had passed since then, how long she’d been lying in that bed, unmoving as she thought again and again of the dark-haired man’s confession.
Logan’s shadow passed in front of the door once more, but she didn’t stir. She knew he was meeting with the others there, understood he had carried other responsibilities before she’d become his charge, but that she was his priority now. He might only allow himself to help them while she rested, but he could help. When she finally rose from the safety of her bed, she didn’t turn on the lights, simply leaving the narrow strip of open door to illuminate her way to the bath.
The water burned her skin, needling wounds that wouldn’t heal for days, raw scrapes and cuts that marred her neck and side. But it felt good to wash away the mud that had worked its way deep into her hair, too great a task for the medical team’s wash basin to handle properly. She felt like she was covered with it, flaking bits of earth that mixed with the steaming water to crumble to mud, sliding down past her feet into the abyss of the drain. It wasn’t only mud. She knew that. But she couldn’t bear to think of the other, darker grime that was trailing over her legs. Because most of it wasn’t even her blood.
When she’d at last exhausted her mental justifications for washing her hair one more time, she stepped free of the shower, gingerly patting her skin dry and sliding a set of loose-fitting clothes over the wounds. She didn’t stand at the mirror to comb her hair. She wasn’t ready to see, wasn’t certain she ever would be. The lights were on in her bedroom now, the faint scent of food, something like soup, making its way to her, and she took a deep breath, if nothing else, eager to be near Logan.
He was wearing a fresh shirt and jeans, and he smiled at her when she walked through the door, but she thought she caught a flicker of something hidden beneath his gaze. He’d been worried about her for certain, devastated he’d not been able to protect her, but it might have simply been her own conscience. She looked away from him, suddenly struck tenfold by guilt about the thoughts that had passed through her mind when she’d lain there, and her gaze caught on a massive mirror above the side table.
She stepped forward, hand coming up to touch the gash at the side of her neck. She’d felt the stitches below her ribs when she showered, knew there’d been several spots she’d been cut or bruised, but seeing made all the difference. There was a mark across her cheek, yellowing enough to tell her she’d slept longer than she realized, and the remnants of a once-split lip and blackened eye. If this was what she looked like after rest and a shower, she couldn’t image how bad she’d been when they’d carried her from the field.