The air in the ship’s infirmary was thick with the scent of antiseptic. Rosalind watched in silence as the doctor wrapped bandages around Cicilia’s wound, her face pale but determined. The bullet had only grazed her side, but the blood loss had weakened her.
“She’ll be fine,” the doctor assured, snapping off his gloves. “Just needs rest.”
Cicilia tried to sit up. “I’m not resting. Nicholas is still out there, and—”
Rosalind placed a firm hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down. “You’re not in any shape to fight right now.”
Tristan, standing near the door with his arms crossed, let out a sharp breath. “She’s right. Nicholas isn’t an i***t. He’ll lay low for now.” His gaze flickered to Rosalind. “Unlike you.”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “I handled myself just fine.”
“You shouldn’t
