Chapter Eighty Three
Luke rubbed his palms together and blew air into his clasped palms. It was a chilly afternoon, and he was not exactly dressed for the weather. He stole a glance at Roselidah, who appeared to be sound asleep; the nippy cold did not seem to bother her. Luke had offered his flannel after Rose had ripped part of hers when tending to the Rogue’s wounds. Wounds Luke had inflicted. His memory of the encounter was still foggy. He had a hard time imagining that he was the one who had caused all that damage. Luke averted his gaze to an insentient Lawrence. At some point, he had stopped moaning and attempting to wriggle about. There was dried blood around his wound, his breathing was frighteningly shallow. Once again, Luke cussed his swiftness to anger. If only he had contained it, if only he had i
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