The sight before her made Liliette’s breath catch in her throat.
“L-Liliette…”
Dandelion’s voice, barely a whisper, jolted her back to reality. He was propped weakly against the headboard, looking utterly broken. His face was grotesquely swollen, barely recognizable beneath the purples and blacks of bruises and burst blood vessels. His lips were cracked and crusted with dried blood, and his left arm hung immobilized in a splint, wrapped clumsily in white cloth.
It was clear he had been beaten relentlessly, the kind of assault that left its victim unconscious. Liliette’s stomach turned. She knew all too well exactly how many blows it took to leave marks like those. A lifetime of witnessing such beatings had taught her that.
“This is your fault. Remember that.”
