Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

shuddering breath. I look around, and my gaze lands on a blanket resting on my dresser, folded and ready for use. I walk over to it and toss it to Lor. He flinches as it lands beside him, and shoots me a suspicious glance.
    “Press this against the wound,” I say. “The pressure will help stop the bleeding.”
    He stares for a long moment at the blanket, like he’s trying to assess whether or not the cloth could be dangerous. Then he nods sluggishly and obeys, pressing the blanket against his wound. His hand trembles with the simple exertion.
    “You’re hurting,” I murmur.
    “No.”
    “Don’t be a tough guy.” I gesture to my bed, realizing a moment too late that he can’t see me with his head down. “Go lay down.”
    He sighs, the sound defeated, and then lifts his head. He stares at me hard and nibbles at his lip, and I can only guess that he’s trying to decide whether or not to trust me. Then he spots my bed and struggles to his feet, wobbling over to it. I try not to smile, but I can’t help but feel like his compliance is a victory. I walk behind him, careful to keep a few feet between us. He’s hurt, but he could still be deadly.
    Lor glances over his shoulder at me. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know. I’m not stupid enough to risk my own life.”
    I raise an eyebrow, careful to hide my relief. “Why should I believe that?”
    “I’m a man of my word.”
    I scoff. “You lied about all Angels looking the same.”
    “How did you figure that out?”
    “Why should I tell a man who can’t keep his word?”
    He rolls his eyes at me, and then collapses on the bed. He pulls himself up on it and buries his face in a pillow, his words coming out muffled. “I had to lie about that, sweetheart. No choice. You were barking up the wrong tree.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Why should I tell a girl who doesn’t trust me?”
    I sigh. “Touche.”
    He makes that little hum-growl noise again. I approach the bed and stop about five feet away, peering at his side. Blood seeps from the wound that broke open, staining my bedspread a dark maroon color. It needs to be restitched, and immediately.
    I take four steps forward, closing the gap between us.
One, two, three, four.
And then I breathe deeply. In and out,
one and two.
    “You know, sweetheart, this bed is awfully comfy,” Lor mumbles into the pillow. He reaches over and pats the opposite side of it, the side where I always sleep. “I’d be happy to share it, if you want.”
    “You’re insane,” I mutter, and then quickly amend myself: “No, you’re injured.You’ll be more rational when you’ve recovered a little.”
    “Don’t count on it, sweetheart. I’m usually about as rational as that Southern Wolf I took out.”
    “Meaning if I stab you in the brain, you’ll die and leave me in peace?” I realize a moment too late that I’m being overly harsh, but my mind feels like it’s been stuffed with gauze, and I’m not in the mood for tact.
    “Hmm…” He shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “Hadn’t quite thought of it that way.”
    As he shrugs, his shoulders pull up and stretch the wound. Why isn’t he screaming? The wound is a four-inch gash across his ribs, and it’s deep. Stretching it like that should be painful enough to make Lor pass out.
    But he doesn’t. He just lets out a long sigh and hugs my pillow. “I missed pillows. And sheets. And beds. Do you know there’s no beds in that prison? You should do something about that, little princess.”
    “I have no power. I can’t do anything about it.”
    “Then pay someone to do it. Or you could sleep with someone powerful. Isn’t that what you human royalty do to get what you want?”
    “I’m a princess, not a whore. And shut up before you say something you regret. You’re being obnoxious.”
    “Says the girl telling me to shut up.”
    Lor hugs the pillow tighter, his arms pulling at his chest and bandages. I cringe as I think of what the movement must be doing to his wound. Tugging it apart, putting pressure on the remaining stitches…
    But he remains nonchalant, even as a fresh stream of blood seeps out the open wound. It’s just a few drops at first, but quickly turns into a small crimson stream.
    I press the back of my hand to my mouth. Usually, blood doesn’t bother me, but the sheer amount of it coming from Lor’s wound… It reminds me of that spear piercing Ashe’s wing.
    I take in a shuddering breath, and it inflates my head with a