Chapter 171
Nolan
We see Jack a week later.
He looks like he's lost some weight. His clothes hang looser on his frame, and there are shadows under his eyes that even sleep hasn't erased.
Once he got home, he immediately fell asleep—exhausted, sprawled across the bed, still in his clothes from the mine. Ciel had to cut his shirt off because his hands were too raw to lift over his head.
I took a day off today. To remain next to him.
The palace doctor stands at the foot of the bed, reviewing a chart. His expression is neutral, professional, but I catch the way his eyes flick to Jack's hands—the bandages, the healing skin beneath.
"He's lucky," the doctor says. "No permanent damage. But he needs rest. Proper meals. And he shouldn't be using his hands for heavy labor until the wounds are fully closed."
"He won't be," Ciel says.
His voice is clipped. Sharp.
I glance at him.
He's glaring at someone.
At the nurse changing the bandages on Jack's palms.
Charlie.
