Chapter 14: Tending the wounds

FAYE'S POV

On what Rowan informed me was the fifth day, he brought supplies into the cabin that suggested a more thorough examination of my injuries was about to occur.

Clean linens. Small ceramic jars containing what looked like salves and poultices. A basin of steaming water that smelled like herbs I couldn't identify. A needle and thread, which he laid out with careful precision on the table beside the bed.

"Your ribs need proper attention," Rowan said, his tone clinical and matter-of-fact. "I've been working with basic wrapping and heat, but I should make sure there's no internal bleeding or serious fractures. It'll be uncomfortable, but necessary."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. There was something about this—the careful preparation, the supplies laid out like ritual objects—that reminded me why I'd been so terrified of being seen. Of being cared for. Having someone pay this much attention to my body, my injuries, my existence felt dangerously intimate.

Rowan helped me sit up slowly, supporting my back with an arm that was surprisingly gentle for someone so powerfully built. The pain of the movement was immediate and sharp, but he waited, giving my body time to adjust before proceeding.

"The shift needs to come off," he said. "Can you manage that, or do you need help?"

I managed it myself, carefully easing the fabric over my head and shoulders, trying to minimize the jarring movements that sent fresh agony through my damaged ribs. The shift fell away, and I was exposed—not just my injuries but all the evidence of my years as a servant girl. The scars on my shoulders from the rogue attack. The thin frame that came from never having quite enough to eat. The pale skin that suggested someone who'd spent most of her life indoors, hidden from sight.

I wanted to cover myself. Wanted to hide.

Instead, I sat there and let Rowan examine me.

His touch was professional—hands moving across my ribs with practiced efficiency, assessing, probing gently, gathering information. His dark eyes were focused on the work, not on me, which somehow made it easier to breathe.

"Definitely fractured," he murmured, his fingers careful around the worst of the bruising. "Maybe three ribs, possibly four. The swelling is starting to reduce, which is good. No obvious signs of internal bleeding, based on what I can see and hear."

He retrieved one of the ceramic jars and unscrewed the top. The smell that emerged was sharp and medicinal—something that made my wolf lift her head, made my senses sharpen. Arnica, maybe. Or something stronger.

"This is going to be cold," Rowan warned, and then he was smoothing the salve carefully across my ribs, his touch methodical and impersonal. The ointment was indeed cold, and it stung slightly when it made contact with the worst of the bruises, but there was also something soothing about it. Some active ingredient that seemed to draw the heat of the injury into itself.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had touched me with kindness. How long since anyone had paid this kind of careful attention to my wellbeing.

Years. It had been years.

"Your mother," Rowan said quietly, working on the upper left side of my ribs, "she died when?"

"Five years ago," I said. The words came automatically, though talking about her still hurt in ways that went beyond physical pain. "A rogue came into the servant quarters. She was alone, and I was—" I stopped, not wanting to explain where I'd been.

"It wasn't your fault," Rowan said, and there was something in his tone that suggested he understood exactly what I wasn't saying. That he'd seen enough trauma to recognize the shape of guilt when he heard it. "Rogue attacks are unpredictable. You couldn't have prevented it."

"She was the only person who loved me," I said, and I hated how small my voice sounded. How pathetic. "After she died, there was no one. I was just—useful. Just someone to give tasks to. Just a body that occupied space in the servant quarters."

Rowan was quiet, his hands continuing their careful work. He finished the salve on my ribs and retrieved clean linen strips, beginning the process of binding them securely. His movements were competent, practiced, the work of someone who'd done this many times before.

"You were loved," he said finally. "Your mother loved you. That matters."

"It doesn't," I said bitterly. "She's gone, and I'm—" The words stuck in my throat. I'm broken. I'm worthless. I'm the reason Ethan couldn't bear to acknowledge the bond.

"You're alive," Rowan said, his voice cutting through my spiral with absolute certainty. "You're recovering. Those are the things that matter right now."

He finished binding my ribs and helped me ease back into the shift, his movements careful to avoid jostling my injuries. When I was covered again, he settled back onto his stool and pulled out a small wooden box.

"Now the other wounds," he said.

He produced bandages and more salve, and began the meticulous work of treating the scrapes and lacerations that covered most of my exposed skin. The ravine had left its mark everywhere—my hands, my forearms, my legs where the dress had torn. Each wound received the same careful attention. Clean. Salve. Bandage. Assessment.

It took a long time.

By the time he finished, the fire had shifted through new logs, and the light in the cabin had changed as afternoon deepened toward evening. My body felt both exhausted and oddly lighter—as if having the wounds acknowledged and treated had lifted some weight I didn't know I'd been carrying.

"You did well," Rowan said, packing away his supplies. "The fact that you're healing this quickly suggests your wolf is responding to care. That's a good sign."

I wanted to tell him that my wolf wasn't responding to anything. That she was still fractured, still grieving, still operating at a fraction of her normal capacity. But I was beginning to understand that Rowan knew more than he was saying. That the careful way he was treating me, the patience he was demonstrating, the kindness he was offering—none of it was random.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked quietly. "Why did you pull me from that ravine? Why are you keeping me here, healing me, treating me like I matter?"

Rowan was quiet for a long moment. He moved to the fire and adjusted one of the logs, then returned to the stool beside my bed.

"Because," he said finally, "someone has to believe that you matter. Until you can believe it yourself."

It was a simple statement. Almost mundane. But it resonated with something deep inside me, something that had been dormant since my mother died.

The idea that my existence might have value. That I might be worth saving.

That I might deserve kindness.

I turned my face away and let the tears come silently, while Rowan sat quietly beside me and didn't try to fix it. Didn't try to make it better. Just acknowledged that this, too, was part of healing.