Harkin tried not to wince as the stinging soap affected his wound, but I felt each breath and twitch as if they were my own.
When the wound was sufficiently clean, a pile of bloodied rags at our feet, I bound a clean cloth around his torso. I packed the fabric tightly against the wound, tying it in a firm knot.
My breath grazed the expanse of his bare chest as I leaned closer to inspect my work. He inhaled sharply, as if in pain, but when I glanced up, his eyes were turned away.
“You’ll survive. Though, try not to reopen the wound while it heals.”
“Cease your murder attempts, and I should have no problem.” Harkin spoke in a deadpan, but his eyes betrayed his mirth. Even deeper, I felt the hurt that was there, lingering beneath. I frowned and looked away.
“Let me return the favor.” His fingers caught the torn edge of my sleeve, revealing the cut beneath.
I jolted as his fingers brushed the wound. “That’s not necessary.”
“Let me help you anyway.” Harkin stood, steadier now, and led me to the table. He gestured for me to sit as he refreshed our supply of clean water and bandages.
It was an effort to ignore his discarded tunic and the way he did not move to replace it. The ripple of exposed muscle as he moved closer.
When he approached, I pushed up my sleeve, and his eyes caught on the bruises at my wrists. Fingerprints pressed purple into mybones and flesh—aching. Bands of angry red stung where the rope had chafed. Harkin looked away, jaw tightening.
With a heavy breath, he turned back to me. He cleaned the slice in my bicep carefully, stirring a gentle breeze to dry my goosefleshed skin. The air was warm and soothing against the pain.
The tension was palpable as he dressed the wound, silence stretching. Neither of us were quite able to manage the words that needed to be said.
He did not speak until the bandage was securely fastened, and my sleeve rolled down once more. His eyes lingered on the place where my bruises were. “I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I hurt you. The bruises on your wrists were done unto you by my hands. I'm sorry.” He would not look at me.
“We hurt each other. We mended each other. There is nothing to apologize for.” I ran my finger along the edge of the bowl—sloshing with bloodied water—just to have something to occupy my hands.
“I should never have lost my temper with you. I should have done better, and for that, I apologize.” Harkin looked pained, and it flooded me with distrust all over again.
Anger rose in my stubborn chest. Always anger, first. “Stop.”
Unease pooled in my gut as it never had before. The feeling that he was not real. That he was trying to be someone he was not in order to earn my favor.
Harkin opened his mouth as if to speak again.
“No, I mean it. Stop with this fucking game you’ve been playing with me. I’m sick of it.” I drew a shaky breath, pushing the bowl away. It scraped along the wooden table with a rasping sound that echoed the feeling in my chest. “Who are you?”
“What are you talking about?” Our gazes finally locked.
“Who are you?” I growled, clutching at the edge of the table. Soft wood pressed beneath my fingernails, dry and splintering. “Who are you, really, beneath the masks you wear?”
He sucked in a heavy breath. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“What is that—” I shook my head in disbelief and pushed to my feet, pacing as I fought against my racing heart. “You are unbelievable. I cannot tell if you are a practiced manipulator grasping at straws, or if you truly believe the story you have concocted in your head.”
Harkin said nothing as he rose to his feet. His chest was still, annoyingly, bare. It heaved with heavy breaths, and I closed my eyes against the sight.
“You want to know what I mean? Fine.” I turned away from him, then back. “Every conversation with you, every interaction, every day is like walking into a masquerade ball. I search foryou,but every Goddesses damned time, you have laced a new mask, and I cannot see beneath. You are the sarcastic, witty, uncaring challenger in my duel. You are the provoker who seeks to ruin my life and reputation. You are the kind and helpful savior who wants to protect me, andfinally, last night, you fought back and showed me a modicum of something real. So I ask, once more, who are you, truly?”
Harkin’s brown eyes turned molten as the sun cut through the window and caught his face. They were wide, his jaw lax. The scars on his nose and mouth turned silver in the glare. His expression held wonder and fear and something else that I could not name. Quietly, he murmured his response. “I fear, I no longer know.”
I moved closer, seeking his gaze once more. He ducked his head as if to keep it from me. “Has no one ever asked you that question before? Has no one ever tried to know the real you?”
“No.” It was a whisper, barely decipherable.
