Marrying a Warhound (Cassian) novel Chapter 123

Chapter 123

Chapter 123

ATASHA’S POV

“We have two new wounded,” Grace announced as she pushed through the door, her arms straining to keep one of the men upright.

The air inside the infirmary was thick with smoke from the braziers, the sharp sting of herbs and the raw smell of blood.

“In here,” Mendez barked, already bending over a soldier with a bandaged chest. He didn’t even look up, his hands stained red to the wrist.

Grace nodded and steered the new arrivals toward an open cot. I stayed where I was, in the curtained cubicle Mendez had assigned to me. He insisted it was safer this way, away from the full chaos, so I wouldn’t be swarmed. Only the worst cases were brought to me.

The man I had just finished with was still staring at his leg in disbelief. Only an hour ago, it had been half- open, the bone dangerously close to being lost. Now the skin was sealed, the blood gone, the limb whole. He kept flexing his toes like he couldn’t believe they still worked.

“Grace,” I called, my voice rough. “Take him to Mendez. Have him check it. He should be able to fight again.”

She gave a quick nod, guiding the man out as he muttered his thanks, his voice trembling.

As soon as they left, I sat down heavily on the low stool, my hands trembling from the strain. My head pounded, every breath leaving me more drained than the last. It felt as though something inside me had been wrung dry, leaving only the shell of my body to hold me upright.

By now, I had to admit, I was growing used to this. To healing. To giving away pieces of myself every time someone stumbled into this cubicle on the edge of death. I still didn’t fully understand how it worked, but I understood enough to see the cost.

Exhaustion. Always exhaustion. And the stronger the body I tried to mend, the faster my strength bled out of

1. me.

There were rules to what I could do, boundaries I could already sense. I had to touch the wounded directly, skin to skin, or blood to blood, for the healing to take hold. I could set bones back into place, reattach what was broken, seal what should have taken weeks to knit. But I couldn’t grow what had already been lost. A severed limb stayed gone, no matter how long I tried.

I could save those whose lives were slipping through my fingers, men already gasping with death at their heels. But once that final breath left them, there was nothing. I couldn’t pull them back. I could not raise the dead.

The knowledge both comforted and unsettled me. Comfort, because it meant there was a line I could not cross. Unease, because it meant I would still fail. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I gave, there would always be someone I could not save.

I drew a slow breath, forcing my hands to still. This was what Cassian had meant when he warned me. Healing wasn’t simple. It was survival paid for with pieces of myself.

That was when I felt it. A cloth sweeping across my forehead, cool against my overheated skin, careful in a way that startled me. I froze, my thoughts stalling, and turned sharply.

Cassian was there. Standing close, crimson eyes fixed on me, his hand steady as though he’d been holding the cloth for some time, watching me without a word.

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