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“Don’t be scared, I’ve done this before. Breathe. In and out, okay?”
Wylan tried to unclench his muscles, tried to breathe like Inej said. But he felt like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. Slow, deep breaths felt like suffocation. It felt like he was trying to breathe in water, like every instinct in his body was rejecting it.
He saw his blood, and it wasn’t just 17-year-old Wylan’s blood. It was his blood when he failed to read a page out loud when he was 8, or 9, or 10. It was his blood when he couldn’t write a full sentence when he was 12, 13, 14, maybe 15. It was his blood when he scraped his skin on the side of the canal pulling himself up, or when he was struggling to stand after the auction, when he was 16.
Inej set the needle and thread aside. “Can I touch you?”
Wylan hesitantly nodded. He felt one of Inej’s hands on his. His breath caught in his throat at the contact.
“Okay. Focus on that feeling. Do you know where you are right now?”
Wylan felt tears welling in his eyes. “The– his– his house, ‘m not– he–”
His voice broke. He swallowed down his sobs. He couldn’t cry, not here, not where he might hear.
“It’s your house now. Not his. It’s never going to be his again. He’s in Hellgate. Okay? You’re safe. I swear.”
Wylan looked at her with wide, terrified eyes. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He bit his trembling bottom lip.
Inej stayed like that, guiding his breathing and calming him down, for Ghezen knew how long. Eventually, Wylan could breathe again.
“I–I’m sorry.”
“Nope. None of that. You’re hurt and you were panicking. There’s no reason to apologize.”
Wylan nodded. He cleared his throat. “Okay.”
“Alright, can I try to stitch this up now? I don’t want you losing any more blood.”