Page 28 of The Betrothal

He now frowned, sticking his bottom lip out, and when I didn’t offer any more excuses, he cocked his head.

“They don’t use these specific terms in medical school, but ‘Holy fuck, my knees’ would be considered a medically significant symptom, so unless you’ve had them seen to, perhaps we should give them a look?”

I must have looked extremely sceptical because he continued.

“I can make a coffee while you change into something more…” His lips twitched in a smile that he smothered. “Knee accessible. And then a quick look over and I’m sure the boys will be back and you’ll feel much safer.”

“I’m perfectly safe,” I countered.

“So, your judo tells me.” Another smile followed.

“Jiu-jitsu actually.” I heard the smile in my voice and relented. “Coffee and a quick knee-check.”

“I’ll even make a fire.”

“Well, that would do it.”

Sebastian had a small collection of first aid items arranged by the sofa when I emerged in my trusty Stitch pyjama bottoms and slid onto the sofa in front of him where he haltingly slid up the trouser legs. The look was less aesthetic than my legging-jumper combo, but I drew the line at changing into a pyjama top for symmetry.

“Do what?”

“The holy fuck. These knees are extremely sore.” He brushed the antiseptic over them earning a hiss. “How did this happen?” He looked up earnestly, pausing his cleaning.

“Rocks?”

“Rocks.” He didn’t press any further on how exactly I interacted with those rocks. “Is this the first time you’ve cleaned them?”

“What? No. I showered today.”

“And this happened?”

“Yesterday?”

He was leading me.

“So, you scraped your knees open on rocks, yesterday, then ignored the pain, gave them the quick once-over in the shower today and Bob’s your uncle.”

His brow arched at the summary that made me look quite careless with myself. I had a lot of other, more pressing things, on my mind, but I wouldn’t be disclosing that justification to him.

“Are you saying that was insufficient?” I asked innocently and he barked out a laugh.

“Correct, Killer.”

I sighed at the nickname he’d now assigned to me, all too overfamiliar already.

He uncapped some arnica and rubbed it around the cuts over the bruised skin, the tenderness causing another flinch.

“Any other injuries?”

“Nope.” I popped the ‘p’ and instinctively fisted my hands, but he caught it, holding out his, palm upwards, and he waited for me to uncurl mine.

Slowly I did so. Sebastian was persistent, but kind, so I relented to accepting his care.

Cupping my wrist softly in his hands, he raised the cuffs of my jumper to my elbows. The cuts and grazes over my palms and forearms looked decidedly less angry than my knees, but their location kept them opening and one of the slices bled slowly.

“Oh dear, Killer. The rocks won, didn’t they?”

I scoffed and I saw the smile from the side profile as he cleaned my palms and rubbed more ointment on them before capping the tube.