Karis doesn’t move, so Ronan grabs his arm anyway.
The spoon falls into the remains of Karis’s pasta with a plop. “I changed my mind,” Karis says as Ronan pulls back the tear in the shirt sleeve enough to assess the injury. “Don’t be nice to me.”
It’s more a rough scrape than anything else, and the bruises will be worse than the abrasions. Already, the skin is turning a deep, inkstained blue. If the injury was his own, Ronan wouldn’t bother treating it. But he doesn’t fancy the tongue-lashing he’ll get from Dansa if he brings home a hostage—or potential recruit—who’s been too roughed up.
He leans back and lets go of Karis’s arm. “Take your shirt off.”
Karis’s eyes narrow.
They stare at each other a moment in the lamplit basement: Ronan cold and impassive, Karis glaring with some sharp blend of anger and uncertainty. Ronan is too tired for this. He’s about to back off, throw the denseed oil at him and let him wrap his own arm, when Karis rises to his feet. The stool scrapes loudly against the floor, and the young man’s pretty face is no longer readable. He drags his tunic over his head and starts unlacing his shirt.
His hair is mussed from taking his tunic off, the auburn curls even softer in disarray. Lamplight shines gold through them, and highlights the thin fingers moving slowly down his laces. He looks thinner in just the single layer, the white shirt accentuating the pink and cream of his skin.
“Just the shirt?” Karis asks lightly, like a thin dagger balanced between his fingertips.
Ronan stays silent, with no change in expression.
When the laces are loose enough, Karis pulls the shirt over his head too, baring all the lean lines of his torso. He’s not as soft as Ronan expected—the bratty attitude calls to mind a spoiled young noble’s son, used to having everything handed to him on a golden plate. But as a squire of the Radiant Order, Karis must have some training. The mark of it is clear in the firm planes of his stomach, the light contours of his arms.
Fitness aside, he’s clearly a novice at battle. Hardly a scar on his body, and he doesn’t carry himself with the true confidence of an experienced fighter. If Ronan had to pick a word to describe him, it would bepotential.
“Like what you see?” Karis asks with a smirk. Enticing. Provocative.
Nervous, though he’s trying to hide it.
Ronan revises his single-word description back toinsufferable. Try to be nice and this is where it gets him. “If you’re trying to seduce your way out of this, it won’t work.” He points to the supplies on the table. “Treat your own arm.”
Karis’s smirk vanishes, his lips thinning out in displeasure. He doesn’t say anything else, just sits back down on the stool and grabs the jar of medicinal oil.
As he digs through some of the tailor’s boxes, Ronan tries to figure out why Karis aggravates him so much. Yes, he’s inherently annoying, but Ronan doesn’t usually get annoyed. He’s good at ignoring provocation. Setting aside his feelings. Focusing on the task at hand. That perpetual calm is how he broke into the Bright Cathedral a year ago to steal the Crown of Vara, the most tightly guarded of the Charaini relics so far. He spent months casing the joint, first trying to get in as a servant, then seducing a paladin. As much as he smiled and flirted on the outside, his heart always remained cold and focused.
But barely two hours with Karis, and he’s already on edge.
He finds what he’s looking for and holds the shirt up for size. Should do the trick. The fabric is a soft, dark green, and the hem and cuffs are unfinished. The tailor said that any clothes downstairs were discards and cancelled orders, free to take. He’ll leave a few coins anyway.
When Ronan turns back, Karis is done with the oil, ignoring the bandages, and reaching for his shirt on the ground. He straightens when Ronan approaches.
“Give me that,” Ronan says.
Karis drops his shirt back on the ground instead of handing it over, but takes the green shirt from Ronan. Their hands don’t touch. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”
“I don’t like it.” Ronan kicks the old shirt and tunic under the table for now. He thinks for a moment. He can leave the undershirt for the tailor to use as scraps if she wants, but he’ll need to burn the tunic. The color is too distinctive.
“You’re taking me outside again,” Karis says. “Are you going to wear a fake mustache or something? AmIgoing to have to wear a fake mustache or something?”
Smart enough to figure out what the change of clothes means, Ronan notes. Not smart enough to keep it to himself. A hint of something other than annoyance flashes through him. Something like amusement.
“Finish your dinner,” Ronan says, and goes to the door to check the wards.
Exhaustion sweeps through him in waves. He’s spent weeks chained up in small rooms and a bumpy cart. The adrenaline of the escape fades away into a tired fog. Ronan considers trying to pull an all-nighter anyway, to keep watch. But it’s better to plan for sleep than to pass out accidentally, and he knows exactly how far to trust his body and mind.
He also knows how far he can trust Karis, which is not at all. The brat’s tried to escape twice already. Completely reasonable from Karis’s perspective, but very inconvenient from Ronan’s. Bedtime is going to require some strategic planning if he doesn’t want to lose his captive. Recruit. Whatever he is.
Ronan picks up the rope again. “Come here.”
Karis looks over from his perch at the table, where he’s been picking at the frayed cuffs. A glazed distance falls away from his face at Ronan’s voice. “What now?”
He obeys anyway, eyeing the rope in Ronan’s hands as he approaches.
