“So you didn’t—” Her eyes glance between my bandaged injury to my face, trying to read me.
“No, I didn’t kill him,” I say dully, answering the question in her gaze. She gives me a strange look, one I’ve only seen her offer me a few times before. I clear my throat and look away, leaning back on my palms as she continues to study me. “Killing isn’t a hobby of mine, I’ll have you know.”
I felt like I needed to say it. Felt like I needed to admit that to her, to myself. What I do—what I’ve done—has had a purpose, a reason. I’m still a monster, just not the kind that loves the hateful things they do.
There’s that look again. It’s like she’s seeing straight through my many masks, tearing down my walls, stripping me bear with nothing but her gaze. I hate it—I love it. I feel free—I feel trapped. The thought that a single pair of blue eyes can leave me so vulnerable, so exposed, is alarming.
So, I do what it is I do best—deflect.
I clear my throat before leaning forward and grabbing my ragged shirt. After dumping the rest of the salve onto the fabric, I gently press it to her wound. She hisses and her eyes fly to mine, full of a fire that makes me chuckle. “Oh, this isn’t even the worst part, darling. I still have to stitch you up.”
She steadies her shaky breaths, long lashes fluttering shut as she says, “Why are you doing this?”
A very valid question, though I don’t intend on answering it until I get some answers of my own. I grab the brutally blunt needle and begin the painstaking process of threading it through with the thick medical string. “Why don’t I ask the questions?” My stare is leveled at her, unyielding and unfeeling. But it’s simply another mask, seeing that I’m currently simmering with rage.
“Which one of them did this to you?” Her eyes fly open, looking more confused and unsure of herself than I’ve ever seen before. But she recovers quickly, huffing out a shaky laugh.
She turns her head to the side to look at me from where she lays on a bed of moss, dirt, and leaves. “It doesn’t matter.” And that is the only answer she deems to give me before rolling her head back towards the starry sky hanging above us, avoiding my gaze.
My fingers find her chin and then I’m tugging her face back in my direction so I can look her in the eyes as I say, “I’m going to ask again. Who did this to you?”
My hand is still gripping her chin, her strong jaw, as she holds my gaze and says, “Why do you care?” Then she’s laughing bitterly, the sound vibrating under my fingers.
“Because I don’t tolerate my toys being played with.”
She is going to hate that.
“Your what—?” She stops, her eyes smoldering, her temper rising. “Is that what you think I am? Some toy you can play with?”
“Yes. And clearly quite a fragile one at that.”
Plagues, if I wasn’t already going to hell, I am now.
She sputters. Actually sputters. I’ve never seen her at such a loss for words before, and I must say, it’s very entertaining. “What the hell is wrong with you? Oh, so you think I’m fragile? I’ll show you just how fragile I—”
“There,” I say calmly, cutting her off mid-threat. “The first stitch is always the worst, especially with how blunt this needle is.”
She blinks, snapping her mouth shut when she looks down to see the needle I’ve pushed through the gash without her even realizing, too angry to feel the pain. Which was exactly what I was hoping for.
“You...you are—”
She’s sputtering again, so I kindly finish for her. “Intelligent? Irresistible?”
“Calculating, cocky, and a completely arrogant bastard,” she pants. “That is what I was going to say.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Good to see you’re feeling well enough to insult me.” I grab the needle again and pinch the skin around her wound closer together, preparing to make another stitch by the light of the fire.
“You distracted me,” she murmurs, as though she’s still taking in the information. Then she huffs out a laugh as she adds, “You distracted me by being an ass, but it worked nonetheless.”
I look up at her briefly before saying, “Yes, I was an ass. And I need you to know that I didn’t mean what I said.” I push the needle through her skin as I speak, using my words as another distraction, though she still lets out a small hiss of pain. “You’re no toy, let alone a delicate one.”
She watches me work, and I will myself not to melt under her burning gaze. “Tell me about home. About Loot,” I say, trying to take her mind off the needle piercing her skin.
“Loot wasn’t exactly a home to me.” She’s quiet, and I catch her chewing the inside of her cheek before she continues. “I had a home once. It was just me and my father, but...but we were happy.” She winces when I make another stitch, but her next words are as blunt as the needle. “And then he died, and my home became Adena. We made a living in Loot together. She made Loot worth living in.”
“How long have you lived on the streets?”
“Five years. I was thirteen when my father died, and ever since then, I’ve lived in a pile of garbage Adena generously called the Fort.” She laughs bitterly at that. “From ages thirteen to fifteen, the two of us were barely surviving. But then we grew up. We figured things out and fell into a routine that kept us fed and clothed. We each had our own skills that kept us alive.”
I let her words, her story, sink in. I wonder silently what had happened to her father, or her mother for that matter. “So, your father taught you to fight, then?” I ask curiously.
“Ever since I was a child. He knew my ability wasn’t one I could use physically, so he made sure I was never truly defenseless.” Her voice is shaky as I thread the needle through the deepest part of the wound. Her hand shoots up and grips my forearm, nails biting into my skin as she bites her tongue to keep from crying out in pain.
“And the dagger you like to wear on your thigh so much,” I clear my throat, “was that your fathers?”
“Yes, it is—it was.” Her laugh is strained. “I suppose you have him to thank for my violent tendencies.”
I glace up and grin before saying warily, “And your mother...? Do I have her to thank for any of your wonderful qualities?”
“Dead.” Her tone is flat. “She died of sickness shortly after I was born. I never knew her.” I’m reminded of Kitt and how his mother died in a similar manner, a tragedy the two of them share.
Her grip on my arm only tightens as I keep pushing the needle through her skin, slowly making my way to the end of the gash. Her eyes are squeezed shut against the pain, refusing to cry or even cry out.
So stubborn. So strong.