One day had passed. And then another night. And when Gwenda woke up the next morning, Ethan still hadn't returned.

She took the opportunity to take a walk around the outside of the house. From the outside, it looked destroyed, old, but it was as new as it appeared to be, as it seemed.

In the back, there was a stable with six stalls, and Gwenda was fascinated. All of them were empty, and she found hay in one of them, as if Ethan had put it there recently.

Gwenda spent some time walking inside the stable and observing all the details, then she took the hay and brought it to the horses.

If Sinclair didn't come back even once, then she should feed the animals. She left the hay in front, prepared a feed with what she had in the stable, and fed them. Then she petted her horse before going back into the house.

Gwenda was restless and started to worry about the pain in her back that she felt on the first night there. It usually appeared when she got irritated from standing still doing nothing, or when she got annoyed in a very small space and clothes that just bothered her.

She almost tore the clothes off, if not opening a hole the size of a hand.

She paced back and forth and searched for something to do in the midst of nothingness. But then she started opening all the drawers she found. All she could open.

She searched for whatever she was looking for, and finally found a drawer full of parchment papers, along with a quill and black ink.

But she just stared at what she would have worked hard to buy at one time. Each paper spent with the same drawing until it was perfect the way she imagined. The training was painful, as well as time-consuming. Her hand would start to hurt, and Gwenda would end up choosing to write, although she used the same hand.

It was a difficult and slow process, but she had always been willing to keep trying until it was as she wanted. A line tilted one centimeter to the wrong side would already make the drawing ugly, crooked. It annoyed her so much that sometimes she would crumple the paper and had to go to the roof of the house, distract herself with the clouds and stars in the dark sky.

But deep down, she was shaken, not knowing how she really should act. If she should let the anger out in tears or in the training she lacked. Deep inside her, everything was trembling, she was alone and felt like a waste. A disappointment.

She missed her parents, and her throat tightened. She thought of Átila Killian, and her chest hurt. Trytan was as recent as any other event.

His non-presence in the world tore a piece of Gwenda bigger than she thought possible, but she liked to show that she was fine, that the mourning had passed. It wasn't about not knowing how to receive affection, but rather because she didn't want to. She was too proud, and that ended up destroying her without her realizing it. Gwenda knew, but it was still difficult.

There were times when she would run through the streets alone or ride Twilight. And when she found a field, she would scream until her throat hurt. Several times she ended up with swollen eyes and a moist face, sobbing. Then she would go back home as if nothing had happened.

She stopped doing that when her mother died. And she started punching trees until her hands bled, a training that sucked her anger and left her tired. But she didn't cry. She refused such a thing.

Gwenda didn't like to think about what happened in the underground at the hands of Arth Cheack, but sometimes there was no way not to think about it. It was hard to be willing to get up in the morning. But Gwenda was fighting, and she would remain so.

Then she closed the drawer with a bang and clenched her teeth until it hurt. Gwenda got up and tied her hair in a bun on top of her head before looking for clothes that would be more appropriate to wear because she had only been wearing the same ones. Either the pants with a flexible band on the breasts, or the nightgown. After the shower, those were the only options, and if Ethan took a long time to arrive, Gwenda should take the opportunity to snoop around every corner. Who knows, she might find clothes for herself.

----------------------------------------

Ethan was back.

Night had fallen like a phantom cloak over the forest canopy, a protection against evils. Gwenda's mind seemed to try to do the same, but she herself considered that she couldn't let go, as if the bad thoughts, somehow, were good for her.

But Gwenda had already realized that she only thought that way when she was broken. Because when she smiled until her face hurt, she found herself wondering why she liked to think about bad things so much. It was sick, but the cycle repeated itself.

Gwenda startled when the balcony door slammed open, and she was about to run to the fireplace to use, futilely, a chair as a shield. But as she turned around, she stopped in her tracks.

Ethan Sinclair staggered in with the gun in hand when he arrived.

Blood on his shoulder streamed down his arm just like a waterfall that Gwenda knew well. The sweat on his skin gleamed in the light of the five lamps scattered throughout the house.

Gwenda shrank back as a shiver ran through her body. Her racing heart screamed to reach out to the man and help him. But she was paralyzed.

In a split second, Gwenda went from startled to terrified.

Blood filled one side of his face, the same side as the injured eye that no longer had the bandage. His blond hair was matted with the same reddish dye.

Gwenda took a step forward and opened her mouth to warn him that the stove was hot, but it was too late when Ethan leaned on it.

Ethan roared in pain and recoiled. Gwenda cursed and ran to him before she lost her nerve.

— What the hell happened? — she asked and wrestled the gun from his hand before supporting his arm behind his neck.

Gwenda clenched her jaw and almost groaned at the strength she needed to hold him up as she practically dragged him to the bed. She almost lost her footing with the enormous weight of his body on her shoulders and glanced briefly at Ethan's contorted face in a way he would have interpreted: what the hell did you do to get like this?

She grunted as she threw him onto the bed, losing her balance and almost falling on top of him. A muscle in Ethan's jaw twitched, and Gwenda watched him arch his back in pain.

— What the hell...

— Don't ask. — he shot back. — Not again.

Gwenda twisted her cheeks in disgust.

If she didn't have an answer...

— There are bandages under the bathroom sink. — he said. — Please.

Gwenda blinked, still looking at Sinclair's face.

No. She almost said the answer.

She wouldn't fetch them before she had an answer.

And when she hesitated to move, Ethan stared at her, and she glanced over his body.

The shoulder, the head, the abdomen below the torn leather probably from a blade.

— What happened. — she demanded, it wasn't a question.

Ethan snorted, then grimaced.

— It's none of your business.

Gwenda clenched her jaw.

— Just like helping you isn't. — he flared his nostrils in anger, and she leaned over him. — When you tell me the story, I'll do such and such.

— Whatever. — he growled and jumped out of bed, pushing Gwenda aside.

She staggered away and dared not approach again.

As soon as he got up, dizziness seemed to overcome him, and Ethan walked more sideways than forward towards the bathroom, one hand on the wound on his abdomen.

— Hey. — Gwenda called out. — Hey.

She caught up to him as Ethan fell to his knees and slowly lay down on his side, groaning incessantly and breathing heavily.

Gwenda grabbed his arm and crouched down beside him. Ethan lay on the floor and looked up, or rather, tried to look up. He blinked several times, seeming to want to find focus.

It was taking too long... Move, Gwenda. A small voice screamed.

She cursed and ran to the bathroom. She hit the door with her body before managing to open it and threw herself in front of the cabinet under the sink.

Tools, soaps, bottles with a kind of liquid that Gwenda believed to be perfumes. She scanned everything and then, deep down and in complete darkness that no lamp in the other room could properly illuminate, were the bandages and everything she needed to clean the wound.

She grabbed the box quickly, not bothering to clear the way until she had it in her arms and was running out of the bathroom to the man lying on the floor.

— Do you know how to do this? — Ethan asked.

Gwenda opened her mouth to respond but then tilted her head to the side and closed it again. No, she didn't know.

She looked at his lost eye, not covered in blood, but trying to find hers.

— Trust me. — she pleaded.

Then she glanced at the items in the box beside her. Her mouth dried, and she swallowed hard.

No one had taught her how to tend to wounds, and Gwenda hadn't learned it on her own either.

Ethan let out a seductive murmur that made Gwenda widen her eyes and look at him again.

— I need to remove the suit.

Gwenda suddenly felt her face grow warm. Not because he would be nearly naked in front of her, but because she should have realized he needed to remove the suit.

So she did. She helped him unzip and lower the suit gently until his entire torso was exposed. The wound on his abdomen was superficial but still bleeding.

She believed it was just a graze. But the one on his shoulder, undoubtedly, was a gunshot.

— I don't know what you expect me to do, but...

— First, clean the blood. — he said calmly, and Gwenda fell silent.

She nodded, reaching for a cloth in the box.

— Use the alcohol from the bottle.

— Okay. — she responded softly and grabbed the bottle.

She poured its contents onto the cloth, and the smell soon filled her nostrils. Gwenda delicately placed it on the wound on his shoulder, and...

— Damn it. — he complained, squirming. — Around the wound.

A mere apology slipped from her lips before she could stop it.

Gwenda moved the cloth away and took a deep breath before trying again, this time cleaning more carefully.

His skin was warm and sweaty. But still, it sent shivers down Gwenda's spine, and something in her stomach bubbled. Ethan's skin was soft despite the numerous scars she found. And now he would probably have one more.

Ethan was still awake, and she didn't know exactly what that meant.

The only thing Gwenda knew she had to do was remove the bullet from his shoulder somehow. So, when she finished cleaning the wound, and the bleeding seemed to be gradually stopping, she took a pair of tweezers she found and prepared for what was about to happen.

But when she brought the metal closer to remove the bullet from his body, Ethan grabbed her wrist tightly.

— Don't do that. — he said, pushing her hand away. — If you're going to stick something into someone's body to remove anything, make sure it's clean.

Gwenda frowned. Indeed, but...

— There are no other tweezers, so clean this one.

She almost grunted but sighed heavily.

— I remove bullets from my body with my fingers. — she said a bit angrily. — Why couldn't you do the same?

— I heard that the girl I kidnapped and who's by my side doesn't know how to tend to wounds. — he replied with a hint of impatience. — I'm without an eye at the moment, and my head is spinning from the blood I've lost. So, if you can continue...

They both stared at each other, or at least that's what she thought they were doing. Considering Ethan lost her gaze and then returned.

The girl I kidnapped.

Scoundrel. Kidnapped; killed; made a fool of...

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Teaching her how to tend to wounds doesn't erase those things.

Gwenda ignored it before she couldn't anymore and cleaned the tweezers with alcohol, making sure he saw that she cleaned every corner.

When she finished, she threw the cloth into the box and put the tweezers into the wound without warning. Ethan didn't groan as she thought he would, just tensed his entire body. Veins popped on his neck and arm, and she just glanced once before reaching for the bullet in the wound and starting to work carefully.

Gwenda trembled involuntarily when she managed to remove it after three times it slipped from her grasp. Her patience was no longer intact. After all, she had never used tweezers to remove a bullet when she was shot.

Ethan took a deep breath, and with his head turned slightly to the other side, Gwenda realized he was tired. She quickly wondered if he had slept when he was out.

Gwenda put the bloody bullet in an empty square bottle, and the tweezers dropped into the box.

— Your eye is...

— I manage with it.

She couldn't help but look at the blood covering his eyebrow and had dripped down to his cheek and now was dry.

— Lucky you didn't pass out.

Ethan didn't respond.

Gwenda hurried to grab the cloth again and poured a little more alcohol before starting to clean the wound on his abdomen.

This time, he stayed quiet. No movements that could give away the pain he felt. When she finished rubbing the dried blood off his skin, Ethan pushed himself up and sat up.

Gwenda stepped back to give him space, without taking her eyes off him.

She made a motion to get up, but Ethan's hoarse voice echoed:

— You're not finished yet. — He turned to Gwenda. — I can't bandage without moving too much.

She raised her eyebrows to herself. She had forgotten she needed to bandage.

— You have the other arm free. — she said.

But he, surely, was tired...

— My fingers are broken.

Gwenda blinked and widened her eyes.

— What?

Ethan brought the other hand forward. It was bandaged, some fingers with a splint holding them straight.

— I missed when throwing the punch.

She almost rolled her eyes.

— I thought you were the jack of all trades.

Ethan chuckled softly, but without looking her in the eyes. His head was bowed.

— Just because I messed up doesn't mean I don't deserve this status.

— I didn't say you didn't deserve it.

— But you thought so.

Gwenda stayed silent as he reached his hand upward and tilted his head to the side to observe what had happened to his beautiful fingers, now wrapped in a dirty white bandage.

— I had only one eye, and I had already taken the shot. I heard the bones breaking, but I only felt it when I threw the second punch.

— You kept going... — Gwenda was indignant.

— Until his face was bleeding in three different places.

— So you fought with one... — she concluded.

Ethan shook his head and bit his lower lip. The gesture made Gwenda hold her breath.

— There were six in total. — Ethan shrugged. — They deserved it.

— You killed them? — Gwenda asked, eyebrows raised and a bit shocked.

— Two of them. — he replied, gritting his teeth as he stood up.

Gwenda remained quiet on the floor, one knee raised where she rested her intertwined hands.

— Why? — She looked up, searching for his face, but Ethan didn't seek hers and slowly made his way to the bed.

— Is the Shooter going to give me a lecture?

Gwenda frowned, irritated.

— From what you've told me about your unpleasant past, there's no doubting that your motive for annihilating someone is just for fun.

— You'd be keeping company with them if that were the case.

Gwenda got up as Ethan sat on the bed.

— Can't we have a sensible conversation?

— Haven't we already? — he asked back, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

Gwenda rolled her eyes and rubbed her face.

— Where were you? — she demanded, it wasn't a question. — I waited for you for two days.

— I told you not to wait for my return.

Gwenda stomped her foot to the opposite side of Ethan on the bed. He followed her with his remaining eye, turning his body sideways to watch her.

What was he doing?

Gwenda couldn't decipher what Ethan was actually wanting from her. Nothing was explained, and he evaded questions.

She pointed an accusing finger at Ethan and spoke softly:

— Are you trying to use me? Because here I am, and I'm not going anywhere. But know one thing, Ethan Sinclair. — Gwenda lowered her hand and ran it through her hair, pulling the strands back from her face. — You will answer my questions.

He chuckled.

— So this is how you got answers in interrogation.

Gwenda gritted her teeth.

— How did you know I was from this area?

He shrugged.

— You were the Shooter, why wouldn't I know?

Because she was the Shooter, probably all sectors were aware of what her job as a Carvlinea entailed. Heck, even those in Marímbea probably knew, and Gwenda thought she was discreet.

But being a Carvlinea and participating in competitions in the arena had nothing to do with each other.

— No. — was all she said.

Ethan raised an eyebrow.

Gwenda rushed to the box on the floor and grabbed the white bandage.

— No, you're a terrible liar, Sinclair.

— Am I? — He smirked, and his eyes were so fixed on Gwenda's as she approached that she needed all the self-control in her body not to go further.

Gwenda put her hands on his shoulders without bothering to be gentle, and a knee on each side of Ethan's legs, sitting down.

Quickly, his hands closed around her waist, holding her in place. He blinked, seeming to try to figure out what was happening.

Ethan opened his mouth to speak, but Gwenda interrupted:

— Oh. — she murmured and opened the bandage in front of him quickly in what could be described as a similarity to someone pulling a belt tight. — I'm going to bandage. — She started, and knowing Ethan was too occupied holding her to prevent her from doing anything, Gwenda brought her hands to his neck. — And you can answer my questions while I do. — She slid her hand to his left shoulder, and then buried her thumb in the wound.

Ethan tensed, closed his eyes, and squeezed Gwenda harder.

She held on to not pull her hands away.

Warm blood soaked her thumb, and she smiled as she leaned forward. If Ethan let go of her now, they would both fall on the bed, and she knew he wasn't in a position to lie down.

— Do you know who blew up the arena, don't you? — she asked.

— I do. — His voice came out strained.

Gwenda raised an eyebrow.

— Was it you?

Ethan opened his eyes. They were shining.

— No.

She looked at his lips.

— Is it true?

Gwenda asked softly, hoping that perhaps Ethan had the slightest sense not to lie about that.

— Yes. — He replied in the same tone. Sinclair seemed to tremble beneath Gwenda, and she lifted her gaze until she met his. Ethan still stared at her.

— What were you doing that night?

— Demanding the money they owed me.

Gwenda blinked.

— And where is that money?

Ethan didn't reply immediately. He just stared at her. Gwenda narrowed her eyes and tightened the bandage on his shoulder. Ethan didn't move.

— What did you do for them to owe you? — She resumed wrapping his shoulder.

— Killed someone for them. She let out a murmur of understanding

— Ah, that's something you're capable of.

Gwenda caught a glimpse of the smile Ethan gave.

She passed the bandage over his bicep and continued upward to his shoulder. Ethan's gaze felt like a caress on her face, but Gwenda knew he was attentive to the work she was doing on his shoulder.

When she paused midway to ask something else, Gwenda looked at him again. The blood in his eye was dried, and the amber color now seemed clearer.

— I'm not blind, Scar — he said, and Gwenda drew in a deep breath as his hands moved up a bit. She continued to wrap, circling the bandage around his torso, and reaching around his back. She barely knew what exactly she was doing, but she tried not to let everything accumulate in the same place and especially cover the wounds on his shoulder and abdomen.

— Who paid you to kill?

— A man I don't know. They didn't give a name, just his appearance and where he worked and lived.

— And what was he like?

Ethan shrugged, and Gwenda almost cursed him for that.

— Do you remember those you kill? A careful question. Gwenda stopped wrapping, and a memory shook her thoughts. She tensed and moved away from him with the urge to leave.

The day she received the scar on her back was wandering through her mind. The almost square blade with small branches that shimmered in blood when it found Gwenda and almost tore her apart...

She could have stood up and split that mysticism in half. But she was... distracted, lamenting the thousands of other deaths she had caused with her finger on the trigger.

— No — she answered, swallowing hard.

Ethan fell silent for a second. And then:

— Really? Because I remember all of them. — His voice came out sharp.

His hands moved up further, and his thumb brushed against the side of Gwenda's breast. Her heart raced with voracity, and a tingling filled her belly.

— So, you're a psychopath.

Gwenda tightened the knot of the bandage tightly and pushed Ethan backward. He fell onto the bed, and his hands went straight to her bare thighs, holding her in place.

Gwenda placed her hands over his to hold herself.

— Why did you only kill two? Ethan refused to rest his head on the mattress.

— Because I needed to leave the others alive to show that I am merciful.

She raised her left eyebrow.

— But you're not.

— That's what I wanted you to think. — Ethan smiled — And it worked.

— You're not merciful — she continued. It was his turn to roll his eyes.

— I'm not — he admitted finally — But there are moments when you need to express who you're not.

— And you needed to leave the other four alive to maintain your lovely reputation? – she mocked.

Ethan smiled.

— I did.

If she didn't briefly know how Ethan was, she would have asked the question differently. Like why he needed to kill the two. But the answer could be either a humble one or one that might even make sense.

Gwenda watched Ethan's eyes, lingering longer on the right, the injured one that didn't seem to be hurting. And what if she flicked it? Gwenda opened a smile and lowered her gaze to her hands clasped in his.

— I don't believe you — she said.

He gave a little smile.

— That's okay.

Gwenda thought and rethought about what she was about to say.

— If you know so much about me. — She said — Then you can tell me everything related to me. If you saved me from an explosion before it happened, then you knew I was implanted from the beginning. How can I believe it wasn't you?

Ethan pulled his hands from beneath hers and held Gwenda's wrists. Before she could protest, he pulled her, and Gwenda slipped forward, preventing herself from falling onto him by placing her hands on the mattress, on either side of his torso. But still, they were too close... and she was sure her eyes expressed a different panic.

— Tell me. — he said, tucking a strand of Gwenda's hair behind her ear — Why would I blow up an arena?

— I don't know. — she admitted.

— And why would I save you?

— Because I'm valuable, according to you yourself.

Ethan tilted his head and observed Gwenda's face from every angle until devouring her lips with his gaze.

She held back the urge to form into a thin line.

— Indeed. — she said.

Ethan blew at the corner of her mouth, and Gwenda shivered, feeling strange. Yet, she couldn't help but manage a weak smile.

— But I wouldn't be foolish enough to plant a bomb in a place without scouring to ensure valuable things aren't nearby.

— You said you were seeing a friend...

— I'll only answer your questions from now on if you answer mine.

Gwenda tried to pull away, but Ethan held her wrist, causing her to stop. He looked at her as if to say: It's either this, or nothing. The choice is yours.

She frowned with irritation.

— Do it. — she said. — Your first question.

— It's not like I don't know about you. But there are some things that were left out.

Scoundrel.

She responded:

— Be quick.

Ethan gave her a look that said: That's not how it works, Scar.

— Who gave you the scar on your back.

He demanded more than he asked.

— A mystic.

Ethan remained silent, searching for an answer in Gwenda's gaze that he wouldn't find. He waited patiently for Gwenda to continue.

— A fey from Telomeron.

Ethan's face seemed to contort in hatred.

— No magic?

— No magic. — she agreed.

— What happened to him?

Gwenda weighed the idea of whether to speak or not and bit her lower lip hard, staring at Ethan's chest below, the scars.

— Raux skinned him alive.

Ethan chuckled, and his breath kissed Gwenda's lips.

— You lie as well as I do.

— For your information. — she shot back — I'm an excellent liar.

But she wasn't lying.

— Seeing you proud of that is adorable.

Gwenda held back the smile that threatened to spread across her face.

— You shouldn't be proud of such things. — she replied.

Ethan frowned and placed his hand on the side of Gwenda's face.

— Who told you that?

Gwenda's throat closed up.

My father.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Ethan hurried to speak:

— In this world, finding people like you is becoming increasingly rare. — Ethan caressed her cheek.

Gwenda was sure her face had turned slightly red.

— How so?

— Experienced. Being proud that you can survive in this place doesn't make you any less worthy.

Because, to live there, you needed to lie and manipulate. To get what you wanted in an unfair place, you needed to know how to handle matters in an unfair way.

Again, his fingers against her cheek.

— Worthy of what? — she wanted to know.

— You're the daughter of Mary Jane Oxwinder. — he commented — The last ranger. And now the decision is up to you. — Gwenda felt the blood drain from her face. — Will you bring the race back, or will you stay hidden?