"I never agreed to…"
"You agreed to allow Clara to assist you. Clara's plan includes one social appearance. Therefore, you're attending the Weatherby's soirée."
"Mrs. Weatherby believes me to be the very embodiment of wickedness.”
"Mrs. Weatherby believes everyone to be the very embodiment of wickedness. You are no exception.”
Gabriel grabbed the nearest shirt, intending to end this torture, when the door opened without warning.
"Edmund, I’ve made a list of…oh."
Clara stopped dead in the doorway, the paper in her hand forgotten. Her eyes flicked up, caught his, and then, against all reason drifted downward. Slowly. As if curiosity had overridden every instinct for propriety. Her gaze followed the line of his throat, over his bare chest still damp from the morning’s wash, past the faint trail of hair leading down to where his trousers sat indecently low on his hips. She stopped there, just for a secondtoo long, before jerking her eyes back up to his face, cheeks flushed, and lips parting on a soundless breath.
Gabriel froze.
For one wild heartbeat, the air between them felt charged enough to burn. His first instinct was to snatch up his discarded shirt from the back of the chair. His second, more reckless one, was to stand perfectly still and allow her to peruse at her own pace. To see how long it would take before she broke the silence, or before he did.
He went with stillness, though every muscle in his body screamed otherwise. Crossing his arms over his chest only made things worse, drawing her attention to the movement, to the flex of muscle and the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He told himself it was irritation he felt, not desire, but the ache low in his abdomen argued otherwise.
Clara, to her credit, tried to speak. “I…ah…thought Edmund was…”
“He’s not,” Gabriel said, his voice rougher than intended.
“Yes. I am fully aware.” Her eyes betrayed her again, flicking downward, just once, before she caught herself.
He smirked despite himself. “Your gaze is remarkably fixed upon me.”
“I amnot,” she said too quickly.
“You are,” he murmured, stepping forward, knowing full well he shouldn’t. The scent of soap and sunlight clung to him, and she swayed almost imperceptibly as he came closer.
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Your attire is an impropriety.”
"Miss Whitfield," he said coolly, as if greeting her half-dressed was perfectly normal. “Is there something that you require?”
She was staring at his scar.
Not the one on his face, the other ones. The network of lines across his chest and ribs where shrapnel and saber had left their marks. The map of violence written on his skin.
He prepared himself for her onslaught of silent disgust.
"Did they hurt?" she asked instead, her voice soft.
"What?"
"When you got them. Did they hurt?"
“Are you truly curious to know if being run through with a blade cause me some discomfort?”
"I'm asking if you remember the pain or just the surviving."
"Both. Neither. I remember the sound more than the pain. Like fabric tearing, but the fabric was me."
Edmund cleared his throat. "I'll just... go... somewhere else." He fled, pulling the door closed behind him.
They stood there, Clara in the doorway, Gabriel half-dressed and exposed in more ways than one.
"You should leave," he said.
