I can’t help but stare—his voice has an almost musical quality with the way he rounds some of his vowels but clips the end of you so it comes out ye. In any other time, in any other place, an accent like that would have had my stomach flipping in anticipation. Still, even through the shock and the fear, my face has gone warm.
With his face just inches from mine, I can smell the warm spiciness of cloves on his breath and the scent of the wind and salt water that hangs about him. This close, I realize his eyes are actually a deep chestnut brown flecked with gold. Until now, though, I’d never realized gold can be just as cold and unyielding as steel.
As if to underscore just how dangerous he is, he presses the sharp tip of his strange knife against the soft underside of my chin and forces me to look up at him. I struggle not to tremble, because I can already feel the bite of it and I’m afraid even the smallest movement on my part will draw blood.
“Not much for conversation, are you, lass?” He lowers the knife, and I collapse back as I take shuddering gulps of much-needed air.
“Please . . .” I hate the breathy whine of my trembling voice, but I can’t seem to stop it. My throat is still too raw to do anything more than whisper, and I am so close to giving in to the tears that it hurts. “Please,” I tell him, “just take me back. I’ll give you anything you want.”
His brows rise a bit, and genuine surprise—perhaps even amusement—flashes across his face as he cocks his head. “And what is it you think I’d be wanting from you?”
After what I’ve been through, I can imagine any number of things he might want from me—some more awful than others. The memory of the warm wetness of a tongue tracing the line of my neck rises up in my mind, dark and chilling, and then I’m shaking again.
He scowls at my pathetic quaking before turning to the other two with a flash of violence that shocks me into stillness. “Can no one use the ounce of sense the good Lord gave you? Get the girl something dry to wear before she catches her death.” He glances back at me once more. “I’m not sure I’ll be wanting her to die quite yet.”
The boy with the Batman shirt looks completely confused for a moment, and in that moment, he finally looks like the small boy he is. “What should we get it, Captain?”
“It is a her, Phin,” he says with some impatience. “Get her something more appropriate than the bit of nothing she’s wearing now.” The one they called the Captain appraises me once more, his cold eyes calculating. “She looks about the same size as Wren. Take some clothing from him.”
Neither of them moves.
“Go on!” he snaps, his voice still soft but unmistakably threatening.
The younger boy jumps then, but the scowling one sends the Captain a questioning look before going to fetch what’s been asked for.
I flinch away when the Captain raises his hand.
“Easy, lass,” he says softly, making his voice almost soothing as he sets his blade on the floor next to him and reaches slowly toward me. I have the oddest sense that he’s done this very thing a hundred times before.
I still again and wait, my jaw tense and aching from my attempt not to show just how scared I am. He’s still reaching for me, slowly, like he’s afraid to spook me. I meet his eyes and tilt up my chin with a courage I don’t really feel, but he ignores my pretended bravery and touches me so softly that, at first, I barely feel the smooth leather of his gloved hand on my arm.
He probes one arm, lifting it and maneuvering the joints, like he’s checking for injuries or broken bones. Satisfied with what he finds, he moves to my other arm and starts the same process. When he comes to my left shoulder, his hand stills over an old scar I have. He presses gently on its raised surface, but I wince all the same at the pressure. He glances up to meet my eyes once more, a question clear on his face.
I know what he’s seeing—a small raised welt about the size of a quarter. The ugly, puckered mass of skin hasn’t faded white, like his scar. It’s still an angry pink that makes it look new, even though the mark is so old, I don’t remember getting it. It’s why I rarely wear sleeveless shirts, even when I’m running.
“Vaccination,” I whisper, but his brows bunch in confusion, so I explain. “My mom and I travel a lot.” I try to pull away, but his grip on my arm tightens, and the question in his expression grows more intense. “I had an allergic reaction or something. When I was little.” I can feel my face heating again, and I can’t meet his dark stare any longer.
He finally lets go of my arm. “We all have our scars, lass,” he says softly. But then his expression gets dark and I think maybe I only imagined the words.
I try to pull away as his gloved fingers trace the skin around the raw, angry wound on my upper thigh, the one left by the creatures, but the chain holds me in place. He frowns as he examines the torn skin. To my surprise, he dips the rag he used on my eyes into the bucket and gently touches it to my sore leg.
I hiss at the unexpected pain, but he doesn’t pay me any attention. He continues rinsing the wound. Then he picks up his blade. I think I see his mouth twitch when I jump, though I can’t be sure whether it’s from annoyance or amusement.