“How did you know?” She picked up her chopsticks and hovered over the eggs.
“Know what?” Nikator dropped down beside her on the couch. Their knees bumped into one another, their thighs nearly touching. He grabbed the bag and pulled open the drawstrings.
“These foods are my …” Biyu couldn’t form the words. Was she being stupid and farfetched to think that he knew what her favorite foods were? That was impossible for him to care enough.
“Your what? I thought you liked these foods?” He rummaged through the bag and pulled out a glass bottle the size of her palm and placed it atop the table. It was a thick, waxy, oil-based ointment of some sort. He continued picking through the bag distractedly. “I’ve been watching you for a while, and whenever you get certain foods, your face sort of … lights up. Are these not to your liking?”
“No, they’re my favorites.” Biyu’s throat closed up, but for an entirely different reason than bawling her eyes out. She cut through the egg with the end of her chopstick and brought the savory morsel to her mouth. It was delicious. “T-thank you.”
He yanked out a roll of bandages. “Let me see your hand.”
Biyu held out her injured hand to him and he carefully peeled back the blood-soaked cloth. She inhaled sharply as the fibers stuck to the opening of the gash, peeling away the scabformation. The bleeding had mostly abated but it still oozed if she moved it a certain way. Nikator dabbed the blood so he could get a clearer look at the cut itself.
“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he said. “I can ask to have Thera take a look later, but for now we can just bandage it up.”
Thera. Another member of the Peccata. They had never spoken before, but she seemed … kinder than the others. More open, less hostile. She was also, apparently, the designated healer of the group, but that didn’t mean shewasn’ta warrior. Everything about her was shrouded in mystery, as was the case with the rest of the members.
Nikator cleaned the wound, applied the herbal medicine, and then bound it tightly. Biyu watched him with lowered lashes the entire time. She didn’t know what to say, or not to say, or what to do. He didn’t need to help her. He didn’t need to do any of this.
“Thank you,” Biyu whispered when he finished tying off the dressings. She shifted in her seat to get more comfortable, and their thighs brushed against one another. He stilled, but Biyu didn’t move away. She remained there and pretended like nothing had happened. She ate another bite of her steamed bun.
Nikator glanced at her and began packing the rest of the supplies back into the little black bag. He didn’t seem keen on receiving gratitude—it was a recurring theme she was noticing.
She ate the rest of her meal in silence, stealing glances every now and then at him; he stared at her the entire time, his deep-blue eyes never giving way to his thoughts. Every time their gazes met, an electrifying tension rippled between them, and Biyu became more aware of their thighs touching.
Biyu tucked a strand of long, wavy hair behind her ear. She had forgotten she wasn’t wearing her hair pinned up in any style; it was inappropriate and improper, but she couldn’t go back to vanity and find something to style her hair. Most, if not all, of her accessories were scattered around her room. She wouldn’t havebeen surprised if all her hairpins had snapped in half during her rampage.
“I’m sorry I hit you.” She neatly stacked her chopsticks next to her plate; there were still streaks of soy sauce that her rice hadn’t soaked up. She cast him another furtive glance, this time maintaining eye contact. “I … don’t know what got ahold of me.”
“It was that bastard Jian who got under your skin, right?”
Her shoulders dropped as she remembered his scathing words. How she was nothing. “Yes, he was … rude, to say the least. But he was also telling the truth, and I think that’s what bothered me more than anything else.”
“I fail to see how he could speak the truth. All he does is fuck around, lie, and make himself look good,” Nikator said with a disgusted snort. “I don’t see why he would insult you when marrying you would give him the ego boost he’s always wanted.”
She smiled at his crudeness; she was getting used to the way he spoke. “I don’t think he needs an ego boost.”
“At least we can agree on that.”
She poked at the frayed threads of her skirt on her knees. It must have happened when she kneeled on the crushed glass. Thankfully, her knees didn’t sting, but she wouldn’t know for sure until she was alone and could assess the damage. She gathered her strength and blurted, “I … I don’t want to marry him.”
She expected him to sneer at her about how she should be grateful to marry Jian, even if he was a horrible person, because it would at least free her from this place. Or maybe for him to snap at her for questioning His Majesty’s decision on her, but his eyes came alive with sapphire flames and a muscle on his jaw feathered. Pure, unadulterated rage pulsed through his frame.
“He’s not going to marry you,” he snarled. It sounded like a promise. A threat.
Her heart skipped a beat. There was a feral undertone to his harsh voice. A promise of something dark. He shouldn’t have cared, she told herself. He really shouldn’t be doing any of this. Guarding her. Bringing her food. Binding her wounds. It was making something in her chest come undone.
She didn’t know what compelled her to speak the next words, but they were out before she could stop herself. It was like shewantedto poke the beast that was barely surfacing. “He told me I’m nothing and that I will always be nothing.”
He snapped his head toward her. “He saidwhat?”
“That whether I live or die, nobody will care, because I’m … nothing.”
She had never seen such anger in him until that moment; it came alive, breathing and writhing and pulsing between them. She could feel it deep in her chest, a darkness that seemed to scorch and burn. His grasp on the armrest tightened and she could make out the thick veins across his hand, the bloodless grip he had.
“Don’t tell me—” His lip curled back, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you believe him?”
Biyu didn’t answer, but her silence was an answer it and of itself, because Nikator’s expression darkened and that look on his face—the one that told her he wanted to murder Jian—only grew more primal, more intense.
