I’m snooping.
A dangerous concoction of boredom and curiosity made me do it. After organizing my notes and calculating measurements, there was nothing left to do but poke around the messy collection of Mak’s life.
I avoid the more personal side of the shop he lives in, though I study the bed and cabinets from afar. Oddly enough, it’s his impressive assortment of weapons that intrigues me the most. I’m causing quite the commotion, clanking steel together and running my hands over everything in sight.
And then I gasp.
And that gasp is followed by a very unpleasant stinging. Blood pools in my palm.
A crooked slice mars the center of my hand, spilling scarlet across my skin. The culprit lies on one of the many shelves straining beneath the weight of countless tools, its sharp blade buried harmlessly among them. I’ve barely held a dagger, let alone been sliced open by one. In fact, the most I’ve ever interacted with a blade has been when I hand Paedyn hers.
I’m considering dashing out the door and Reeing the kingdom. I haven’t known Mak for long, but I do know that he will hardly be sympathetic. He’ll likely mock and—
The door swings open, as though I’ve summoned him with my stupidity.
‘I don’t know what polyester is, but this shit better be that because it sure as hell wasn’t cheap.’
I spin to face him, pushing my bloody hand behind my back. Tugging on a smile, I glance at the white bundle in his arms. Without warning, he’s suddenly striding towards me, swallowing the space between us.
‘Go on.’ He nods down to the fabric. ‘Make sure this is what you wanted.’
Swallowing, I pull the uninjured hand from behind my back while trying to ignore the biting sting of the other. Within one heartbeat, my 1ngers hover above the fabric. And in the next, his hand is clamped round my wrist, halting the movement.
‘What did you do?’ His voice is even, deliberate.
‘Hmm?’ I can feel my eyes widen with guilt. ‘What are you talking about?’
A sigh. ‘Let’s not start lying to each other, hun. There’s blood on your knuckle.’
My eyes Ry down to my hand. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh.’ He reaches behind my back, brushing my hips in a way that sends a jolt down my body. After snatching my incriminating hand, his eyes widen slightly at the blood dripping from it. This may be the most emotion I’ve seen from him yet.
At the concern Ritting across his face, I smile warmly. ‘I’m 1ne, really. I just nicked myself with a blade. No need to worry.’
‘It’s a little late for that,’ he says, eyes Ricking up to meet mine. My heart warms at his sentiment, at this anticipated show of kindness. I knew he would come around, begin to show some sort of kindness for—
‘Shoo, you’re going to get blood on the fabric!’
My soft expression Rattens into familiar dislike. ‘And here I was, thinking you were worried about me.’
He strides over to his crumpled bed where he dumps the bundle of fabric, deeming it a safe distance from me and my staining hands. ‘Well, maybe if I had to pay three silvers for you too, I’d be a little more worried.’
Plagues, I’ve never paid that much for fabric. Then again, I rarely pay for fabric, considering that Pae has her own methods of acquiring it for me.
He’s suddenly towering over me once again, eyeing my bloody hand while I try my best not to wince in pain. An accusatory look lifts his eyebrows. ‘Snooping?’
‘Maybe a little,’ I admit with a grumble.
He lifts my hand, his hold shockingly gentle as he examines it. ‘How the hell did you manage to do this?’
‘It’s a gift, really,’ I sigh. ‘The only sharp object I trust myself with is a needle.
And even that can be dangerous.’
‘All right.’ The hand he places on my back is light, feeling like the phantom of a touch, as though I’m simply imagining it. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up. Out of the goodness of my heart, I might add.’
I glance over my shoulder at him. ‘I thought you weren’t giving any of that to me?’
‘You’ve forced my hand.’
He guides me towards the intimate half of the room I haven’t dared venture into. The half that feels too personal for my prodding.
His disheveled bed looms closer with each step, along with a string of makeshift cabinets lining the opposite wall. I stop before I collide with the counter, turning to give him a questioning look.
That’s when my feet leave the ground.
I gasp, possibly squeal, when he lifts me onto the surface with ease.
The gawk I give him is met with a dry look. ‘I’d rather you not bloody my counter while trying to get up here.’
His hands are still 1rm on my hips while my breath is still lodged in my throat. I attempt to blink the bewildered look from my face. ‘Right. Yeah, of course.’
He manages to pull most of his hair into a strap, though several pieces fall around his face, some slipping down his neck.
My face Rushes at the sight, as though seeing his bare chest earlier was less of a distraction than the sight of his messy hair.
Grabbing my injured hand in one of his own, he uses the other to lift a canteen of water oI the counter beside me. After unscrewing the cap with his teeth, he tips the liquid out onto my palm. Cool water meets my bloody gash, stinging as it seeps into the slice now drowning in crimson swirls.
I bite my lip in an attempt to ward oI the tears welling in my eyes. I’ve never been much good with pain. Never needed to be. But I refuse to be ashamed of my softness. Gentleness is the strength that fragility lacks.
‘I’m sorry,’ he starts quietly, ‘that something of mine has already wounded you.’
I shrug slightly. ‘And I’m sorry about your knife.’ His eyes Rick up to mine. ‘And why is that?’ ‘Because I got it all bloody.’
I happen to look up in time, witnessing the beautiful accident that has happened.
I’ve made him smile.
At 1rst, it looks as though he’s trying to 1ght it, like a habit that has been long broken. And then it’s all white teeth and crinkled eyes; smile lines and deep chuckles.
It transforms his face, painting his features in warmth. His icy expression melts, revealing soft accents and a stunning smile. The thin scar gracing his lips stretches into something much softer, something far less intimidating.
This is the face of a boy who hasn’t yet been hardened by life itself. ‘So, he does smile!’ I say, wearing one of my own.
And then I immediately regret opening my mouth. It’s as though the words have smothered the spark that lit up his face. The stony expression suddenly seeps back in. ‘Don’t go getting used to it.’
‘Yes, Plagues forbid anyone thought you were actually happy once in a while,’ I mumble teasingly before suddenly deciding on something. ‘I’m determined to make you smile again.’
I watch him dab lightly at the wound, staining the towel he uses with each swipe. My knee bobs anxiously atop the counter, awaiting his response while rattling the now empty canteen beside me. He glances down at the commotion I’m causing, then back at his hands still tending to my own. With every other limb occupied, he simply leans towards me, pressing his body against my bouncing appendage.
The weight of his hip burns through every layer of clothing, every rational thought, every 1ber of my frenzied being. My knee stills beneath the pressure he applies, my heart doing the same at the sheer closeness of him.
He manages to lean in further, murmuring, ‘You’ll have to earn it, honey.’
I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but it’s suddenly di cult to swallow the lump growing in my throat at the sound of his deep voice. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because I’m hardly deserving of them myself.’
It’s clear that he doesn’t wish to elaborate on his vagueness. We eye each other for a long moment before he begins digging around in a cabinet, pulling an unraveling roll of medical cloth from its depths. Tearing it with the teeth I’ll likely never get to glimpse again, he begins thoroughly wrapping the width of my palm.
‘There,’ he says blandly, stepping back to admire his work. ‘No chance of you bloodying my fabric now.’
‘Might look more realistic that way,’ I oIer with a tilt of my head. ‘Have you seen how stained most Imperial uniforms are?’
‘Dammit, Adena,’ he huIs. ‘Maybe mention that before I heroically tend to your wound.’
