The infirmary smelled of crushed yarrow and iron. Distant snarls from the battlefield vibrated through the stone walls, but here, in this dim sanctuary of flickering candlelight, there was only the ragged sound of my breathing and the slow drip of blood onto the examination table.
Riven's hands were steady as he cleaned the arrow wound along my ribs, his touch clinical yet unbearably intimate. The lantern light caught the silver strands in his pale hair as he bent over me, his breath ghosting across my damp skin.
"You're fucking lucky," he murmured, dabbing at the torn flesh with a cloth soaked in antiseptic. "Another inch deeper and you'd be drowning in your own blood right now."
I hissed as the stinging solution bit into raw flesh. "Your bedside manner needs work."
