I reach out to grasp the bottom of his shirt and the silkiness of the fabric takes me off guard. So smooth and soft, it’s such a contrast to my own rough-hewn clothes. Mindful of his wound, we work together to get the shirt off him. His jaw remains locked throughout, with only the slightest hiss escaping from between his teeth.
I’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s different now that he’s close enough for me to smell the musky aroma of iron and vanilla that rises from his skin. It makes it hard for me to think.
My eyes are drawn to the numerous lines on his body. He wasn’t lying about not using healers. There are dozens of scars – thin, silver lines that could easily be erased with magic. Yet he wears them like a badge of honour. No, I realise, not honour, but reminders. Like the tallies etched into the walls. He wants to remember how he got them. Why he got them.
I unconsciously trace my fingers over one, catching myself as his flesh trembles under my fingers.
A side effect of the drink, I tell myself, because it’s not cold in the dorm room. Then again, I’ve got goosebumps rising on the back of my neck and all across my arms.
‘Are you actually going to do the stitches, Thorn? Or do you want to just keep staring?’
I flush as my eyes snap up to meet his gaze, his icy irises glinting.
‘I don’t mind,’ he continues. ‘Just I’d hate to bleed out. So maybe you could do the ogling after the stitches?’
Gods, I hate how right he is. I was definitely ogling.
‘Just working out how deep I need to go,’ I say, gesturing to the needle.
‘Funny, I was thinking something remarkably similar.’
A deep red blush colours my cheeks, and the heat pooling in my gut intensifies. Fuck! What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a prude, yet every flirtatious word from him sets my entire body on fire.
It’s just because I need to get laid, that’s all. Nothing to do with the man doing the flirting. Nope.
I steel myself and begin. His body clenches as the needle pierces his skin, and he exhales slowly as I pull the thread through, pierce the top of the wound, and then pull the stitch tight.
‘First one down,’ I tell him. ‘You’ll need another six or seven, I think. Still all right without that paparvy?’
His jaw is locked. ‘I’m fine. Just focus on what you’re doing.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m focused.’
I do the second stitch and then the third, all without looking up. It’s crazy how much control he has. His refusal to cry out in pain. That damn stubbornness of his. All he offers is the occasional long exhale. After the last stitch, I tie the string into a knot before grabbing a dagger and cutting the thread, then step back. They look good, if I do say so myself. I’m about to say as much to Kyor, but when I look up, he’s staring at me with a completely unreadable expression.
‘What?’ I ask, shrinking under his scrutiny. That’s when I remember I’m wearing my old slum clothes. Garments I’d be judged by the instant I left this room. Garments that highlight all too clearly just how far I’ve fallen, and how far apart in status we are. ‘Are you seriously staring at my clothes?’ I spit defensively, folding my arms over my chest.
Kyor’s eyes lock on mine as he snorts. ‘Your clothes?’ he says, arching an eyebrow. ‘When have I ever given a fuck about what people wear? Trust me, the only time I’ve ever thought about your clothes is when I’ve been imagining ripping them off you.’
My heart squeezes tight in my chest. He’s only saying that because he’s drunk, though the stitches seem to have sobered him up remarkably.
‘You’re all patched up now,’ I say, throwing him his blood-soaked shirt. ‘You’re good to go.’
He stands up, leaving his shirt on the bed. ‘And what if I don’t want to?’
I feel my breath leave my lungs in a long exhale as my pulse rockets. But it’s not out of fear. No, it’s far more dangerous than that.
I lick my lips. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘And?’ He takes a step forward. ‘I was sober enough to find my way here. Sober enough to know where I needed to be.’ He lowers his voice further still. ‘Sober enough to know where I wanted to be.’
‘I’m not going to be your distraction, Kyor,’ I assert firmly.
This time, he doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t sway. Two strides and he’s right in front of me.
‘Why did you follow me last night?’ he whispers, brushing his hand along my jaw and grazing my bottom lip.
‘I already answered that.’ I try to control the tremble in my voice. ‘Why are you still here? You got what you came for.’
