That frown smoothens between his brows.
Slightly, he tilts his head as if to consider me better, and strands of his black-stained hair brush over his eyes.
I hate it.
I hate that, at the sight of him, a burst of relief is a tornado in my chest.
I hate that a breath utters out of me and onto the cold familiarity of his palm; like I can breathe again just by looking at him, just by him being here.
I’m not alone anymore.
Every part of me aches to lunge at him, to strike at him, to rip his fucking eyes out, to lock my arms around his neck—and refuse to let go of my life vest in the ocean.
I hate that, right now, staring into those icy eyes, I realise just how safe I feel around him.
My hand slaps onto his wrist, to hold, to grip, to dig my nails into his marble flesh—
But his wrist is wet.
I cut my gaze to the hem of the leather sleeve.
Black, inky, and glistening.
I peel my hand away and bring it into the angled wispy light. My fingers are wet with blood.
Fae blood.
Rust’s.
The relief defeats me.
My face twists against his hand.
The sobs rise up. And like a pathetic child, I sit here on the soft floor, folding into myself, jerking with the cries I try to swallow down.
Samick’s grip softens.
His fingers become whispers against my cheeks until they are gone, and he brings his forearm to rest on his knee.
He waits.
He waits out my restrained sobs.
He watches me cry.
Crouched there in front of me, in the wisps of faint torchlight dancing over the marble sheen of his features, blood staining his cheek and hair and his leathers, he pauses—
And he doesn’t ask why I’m breaking down.
Not even as minutes pass and I press my hand to my chest as I try to catch my breath.
Only then does he move.
He reaches into a pocket, then draws out my inhaler.
I snatch it from him, my sobs heaving through me. And I guzzle in that medicated air.
Still, he says nothing.
