Chapter 447
She came to in a foreign bedroom, it belonged to one of Malick's lackeys who'd either died or run. Jorick stripped away her ruined clothing and wrapped her in a stranger's pajamas. He frowned at her bloody clothes, but she couldn't tell him how they'd gotten that way.
Hours dragged in irrational patterns of time. She would drop into scorching blackness, but always came back to find herself in Jorick's arms, shivering and sobbing. He held her and soothed her, promised it would end. When she begged for water he gave her blood, first from a bag, and when she couldn't wrap her lips around it he poured it in her mouth. As the space between spasms increased, she managed snatches of sleep, interrupted by splinters of nightmares and agony. Each time Jorick was there, cradling her against his naked chest and whispering assurances, his tired eyes full of worry.