“Her wounds. I need to see her back,” he hissed, gritting his teeth against the pins and needles in his arms, the burning in his back, and the stabbing in his calves and feet. Heather turned the sleeping Sasha toward him, coaxing her onto her belly and moving the tattered edges of her dress away from her injuries.
Even in the orange glow of the firelight, Damion could see that the gashes were closed, but thick, purple lines extended from Sasha’s shoulder blades to her waist. There was no infection, and the pain had seemingly gone. But the marks remained.
He struggled to his knees and Heather was there, slinging one of his arms over his shoulder to help him stand.
“Are you ill, Captain?” Heather asked, realization making his voice rise in panic. Damion could heal his men, but none of
