I shrug, lame, suddenly feeling the weight of the responsibility of a conversation I shouldn’t have gotten myself into.
I glance at the golden fae. “You could tell her that you’re mates, and you’re taking her to your home where she’ll be safe, and together you’ll—” I pause to tut “—run a shop, or whatever it is you do.”
Out the corner of my eye, I notice that a muscle feathers in Samick’s cheek.
“I do not own a shop.” The dark warrior’s frown is unkind. “I am an ox farmer.”
For an ox farmer, his English is pretty damn good.
Better than Mika’s has ever been.
My brows raise. “So… tell her that? Tell her… where she’ll live, with who, and that you’ll keep her safe. You shouldn’t blame her for running when the ground was splitting apart, and she was scared. Scared of you, too.”
He levels his stare with mine.
But before he can say anything, Samick’s low voice gravels over the crackling campfire, “Why does profession matter?”
“Because… it determines lifestyle, I guess. Like, if she’s the mate of a farmer, then she’ll be helping out on a farm, right?”
I look to the dark warrior—but his cheek is turned, and he stares at Connie rolling over onto her other side.
“And if he’s a warrior all the time,” I add, “then he’ll barely be around. And if he’s a fisherman, she’ll live near the sea… I don’t know why it matters, it just does.”
Samick closes over his sketchbook. “What is your profession?”
I tug my sleeves over my bare hands.
My gloves are off, draped over the toes of my boots, close to the flames. They need drying out sometimes—and my hands need a break from the material, otherwise my skin gets itchy.
I splay my fingers against the heat.
“Mine?” I sigh, watching the flames dance. “I didn’t really have one.”
The small smile on Samick’s face is slapable. Because it’s triumphant. “It does not matter then?”
“Actually, it does.” I turn a smarmy look on him. “I worked in retail. And hospitality, and cleaning, and wherever I could get a job, but I was never good at holding one down. Like, I would work well for a few months, then something would happen with someone at work, or I just got tired, or bored, and then… I would quit. So if someone was to be with me forever,” I scoff, “well, then they would want to know that I’m never bringing in money for more than a few months at a time, and not to rely on me for anything, really.”
Makes it hard to get by.
Flaky, broke, and a bit of a deadbeat.
Guess I’m more like my dad than I care to admit.
I don’t see Samick judging me for it, though. He just considers me.
It makes it easier to be around him sometimes, easier than it’s ever felt to be around another human, because I don’t feel as judged.
“How do you feed yourself?” The dark warrior is curious. He’s sitting up now, forearms draped over his hiked knees. “Do humans live in community and share resources?”
His English still impresses the shit out of me. But really, it’s most surprising that he learned it so well—but knows nothing about us as a people.
I shake my head. “Not really. My friend looked after me when my mum died, and ever since. And I made money other ways.”
“What other ways?” Samick’s face is thinning, a faint echo of annoyance building through him—like his mind has already filled in the blanks, and he’s creating his own imagined answers.
“I sold drugs.” That’s the truth. “Weed, mostly. It’s something you smoke to relax. And I sold some stronger stuff. Party drugs.”
Samick’s cold stare sears into my cheek.
