I clenched my teeth and avoided all analysis of what that might mean, other than that I was in shock and in pain, and nothing made sense at the moment.
He sank into his chair, which put him at eye level with my breasts and made me reluctant to breathe too deeply, even though he wasn’t looking. “Give me your hand,” he ordered softly.
“No.”
I don’t know why I said it. He was trying to help. But I was angry at him. And not for any of the myriad reasons that could logically have justified the emotion. Not because he wanted me gone, or because he’d written to my father without my knowledge. Not because he’d met with my father in secret, where they’d discussed my future without my participation.
Not because he was clearly trying to remove me from authority over my own life.
I was mad at him—furious—on a deeper level, for some reason I could not remember. Was that obscure reason also the cause of his ire at me?
“No?” He sighed again and looked straight into my eyes. The left side of his face was lit by the lamp burning on the desk, and the flicker of light and shadow only emphasized the strong, well-proportioned features he shared with Wilder—and the coloring he did not. “Why won’t you give me your hand?” he demanded in a soft, impatient growl.
“Because I’mangrywith you.”
Amusement flashed across his expression, followed by what I could only describe as the briefest flicker of nostalgia. Of…settling in. As if he’d just entered a room he remembered fondly.
But then it was gone.
“What, may I ask, does your anger have to do with the injury you’re hiding from me?”
“Not a thing,” I admitted. “But you cannot possibly expect me to obey just because you’ve given an order. I remember nothing of my adult life before I lost my memory, yet I amabsolutelycertain that I did not obey orders just because they were given.”
That amusement was back, and this time it clawed at my nerves, fraying my patience. “No,” he confirmed with a sharp shake of his head. “You have never been what I would characterize as compliant.” He cleared his throat and looked up at me without a hint of a smile. “May I please see your hand so I can do you the favor of assessing and treating the wound?”
I hesitated for another second. Then I held out my right hand, bloody knuckles up. “You may. And thank you.”
He examined my hand without touching it at first. Then he leaned to one side and pulled a rounded leather bag into his lap. I recognized it as a laboratory aid kit, mostly used when someone sustained a burn or cut themselves on broken equipment.
“That is not from a busted beaker or pipette,” he said. “The cut would be on your palm. Or a finger.” His voice hardened a bit. “What have you done, Amber?”
“In my defense,” I began, “I wasattemptingto resist prostituting myself under duress in exchange for help in remedial alchemy. But the result was somewhat less effective than I might have hoped, and the short end of it is that the mastery cohort lab space is now missing agorgeousleaded glass window.” I sighed miserably. “Half of it, anyway. Though I suspect that if it is removed for repair, what remains of the glass will crumble.”
Desmond’s hand stilled inside the aid bag. His gaze snapped to mine. “You wereassaulted?”
“I suppose,” I said, though I had not considered it in that light. “And in return, I inadvertently assaulted the leaded glass window.”
“Wilder?” he almost growled, his pupils tightening to little more than dark pinpricks within the coppery-brown depths of his irises. “Is that why you’re here?”
Confusion made me physically recoil for a moment, and the rage burning within his visage kept me trapped in that moment even longer. “No!Of course not. Why would you even think—”
“You were in the lab, in the middle of the night. Wilder is the only one who…” His words faded, evidently as my denial sank in. Some of the fire was extinguished from his expression, but the rest smoldered there, ready to flare at any moment.
“Does everyone know about that?” I asked. “About his…nighttime activities?”
Desmond huffed as he pulled a clean cloth from the bag and folded it into a neat square. He took my right hand in his left and began to gently blot the blood from my wounds. “Who was it?” he asked as he worked, without looking up from my hand.
His skin was warm and rough in places, calloused in a way I would not have expected from a man who’d spent the past five years in classrooms and labs.
And…training with soldiers, evidently?
He looked up, and my gaze swam in his until I felt like I was drowning. “Amber?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I finally said.
“It most certainly does. This bully could have something to do with what happened to your memory. And he’s obviously still a threat.”
I shook my head. “He found out about my amnesia from eavesdropping. I practically caught him. Before that, he truly had no idea.”
