His head snapped up. Keriya was emerging from the shadows of the far corner. He hadn’t noticed her when he’d entered—he was seriously out of it.
As his shock drained away, unwelcome heat flickered in to replace it. Why was she here again? Wasn’t she tired of this excruciating dance? What did she want from him? And why did she want it now, when his wound was aching and he was worked up over the war and that trog Windharte?
“This isn’t a good time,” he said harshly, fiddling with his prosthetic buckles. “I need rest.”
“You need a healer more,” she murmured. “You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down to see a small red stain blotting the white of his uniform shirt. Ra curse it all.
“I’ll survive.”
“Will you?” There was an edge to her tone that forced him to look at her. “If it’s immune to magic
