HERBS AND BLOOD
The Saturday market smelled of damp earth, citrus rinds, and spice. Tia moved easily through the narrow lanes, a wicker basket looped around her arm, its weight tilting her shoulder with each step. She had bargained for new terracotta pots, a packet of seeds—lavender, basil, and something labeled onlymoonflower—and a hand-forged trowel that glinted bronze beneath the lantern light. The old one had snapped last week when she was repotting her orchids, and she hadn’t the heart to throw it away yet. It lay now in the corner of her greenhouse, like a relic.
The sun had gone, but the heat lingered. Vendors were shuttering their stalls, sweeping up wilted leaves, counting their coins. A group of children darted past her, shrieking with laughter, their feet scattering dust. The town always softened in the evenings—noise quieted, air cooled, and the distant hum of the city shrank to a murmur. Tia loved these hours, when the world felt caught between wakefulness and sleep.
Her basket was heavier than usual, so she chose the longer but easier road home, one that wound along the old canal lined with neem trees. Their shadows arched overhead like ribs of a cathedral. Fireflies blinked against the leaves, scattering in clusters. It was a beautiful night—one of those where the breeze carried the fragrance of wet grass and promise.
She pressed her free hand against the linen of her white dress, smoothing it. The fabric clung faintly in the humidity. She walked slowly, letting herself savor the solitude.
That was when she noticed the figure.
At first, it was only a shape breaking the rhythm of the trees, moving with an uneven gait. A tall man, staggering. His steps faltered, one hand pressed to his side, and then he collapsed forward onto the curb with a muffled curse that scraped the silence.
Tia froze. Her pulse thudded, instinct flaring—go, don’t get involved. But she saw the gleam of wetness against his shirt, the unmistakable spreading dark of blood.
Her feet moved before her thoughts did. She crossed the street, basket bumping against her thigh.
Up close, the stranger looked worse. His dark eyes burned red-rimmed with pain, strands of black hair plastered to his temple with sweat. His clothes—once expensive, she thought vaguely—were torn and dirt-streaked, slashed in several places as though by knives. The sharp scent of iron clung to him.
“Sir—” she began, crouching beside him.
“Leave,” he rasped, voice low, guttural. “Go home. Forget you saw me.”
She blinked, startled by the harshness, but steadied herself. “You’re bleeding. Badly. You need help.”
He turned his face toward her. Even through the dim light, she felt the weight of his gaze. There was nothing pleading in it, only command, the kind that expected obedience. “Don’t touch me,” he ground out, trying to push himself upright. The motion tore a groan from his chest, his arm buckling beneath him.
Tia set her basket down, ignoring him. Her hands hovered, then pressed against his shoulder, steadying him. His muscles tightened under her touch, all coiled resistance.
“I said—”
“Save your strength,” she cut in, surprising even herself with the firmness of her tone. She had no idea who this man was, but leaving him bleeding under the trees felt impossible.
His lips pulled back in something between a grimace and a snarl. But then his body swayed, his breath hitched, and the iron edge of his glare dulled, overtaken by dizziness.
The last thing he saw—before the darkness pulled him under—was the sweep of her hair catching the breeze, brown strands lifting like silk in the moonlight. Large, dark eyes widening with determination. The white hem of her dress glowing pale against the night.
He woke to the sound of water.
It took a long moment to realize it wasn’t a river or rainfall but the trickle of a faucet. His throat was dry as dust. He shifted, instinctively reaching for the weight of a holster at his side—and froze.
Soft sheets beneath him. A ceiling fan rotating lazily overhead. A faint floral smell in the air.
Panic flared. He lurched up, only to feel the sharp pull of bandages across his ribs. His breath hissed through his teeth.
The room was small. White walls, a narrow bookshelf lined with dog-eared volumes, a potted fern drooping in the corner. Through an open door he glimpsed a kitchenette—clean but modest. This was no hospital.
Then he realized—he was in nothing but briefs.
A sound drew his eyes. Tia stood by the sink, rinsing blood from a cloth, sleeves of her dress rolled to her elbows. Her hair was tied loosely, strands falling against her cheek. She turned at the creak of the bedframe, and their eyes met.
“You’re awake,” she said simply. No fear. No apology.
His voice was sandpaper. “Do you know who you’ve let into your home?”
She set the cloth aside, drying her hands on a towel. “Someone hurt,” she replied, tone even. “That’s all I saw.”
His jaw tightened. He searched her expression for a flicker of recognition, suspicion—anything. There was none. She was either an excellent liar or genuinely oblivious.
“You should have left me there.”
“Maybe,” she admitted. She picked up the basket from earlier, now emptied, and placed it on the counter. “But I didn’t.”
He forced himself upright, wincing. “I don’t need your charity. I’ll go.”
“You can’t even stand without gritting your teeth,” she pointed out. “Stay until you heal. Then leave. I don’t need thanks, and you don’t owe me anything.”
It was said with such plainness that it disarmed him more than any plea could have. He frowned, thrown off balance by the lack of agenda.
“And my phone?” His hand twitched instinctively toward where it should be.
“Broken,” she said. “I’ll see if it can be fixed.”
He stared at her. Strangers did not take in bloodied men and mend their belongings without reason. Every fiber of his training screamed that she must have some angle. Yet she moved with the calm efficiency of someone more concerned with soil and seeds than secrets.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the hum of the fan. Finally, his body betrayed him, fatigue dragging at his limbs. He sank back onto the pillow, cursing himself.
Tia watched him for a moment, then turned the faucet off. “Rest. You’ll need strength to argue with me tomorrow.”
Against his will, a huff of breath escaped him—half scoff, half reluctant amusement.
Sleep claimed him again before he could stop it.
