Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t flinch.
Stubborn creature.
He turned her arm slowly, examining the damage the way a jeweler examines a precious stone. The burn spread across her inner wrist in an irregular patch.
“You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
The panic he’d felt in that moment, when her sleeve caught fire. That split second of frozen terror before his body moved without permission, his hand closing around her shoulder, wrenching her away from the hearth.
He knew too well what a fresh burn felt like, and he didn’t envy her. She had the finest skin, soft as flower petals and glasslike. So fragile. So delicate.
He dabbed the cloth with methodical patience. Water trickled down her arm, tracing the blue veins beneath her translucent skin.
Stop.
The salve waited in a small tin, its contents the color of raw honey. Hopefully, he treated it soon enough to prevent scarring.
He scooped a measured dollop onto his fingertips and gently touched the burn.
She went rigid. Every muscle in her arm tensed, her hand curling into a fist against his palm. Her breath vanished. She held still as prey.
Jack spread the salve with excruciating care. His warm fingers melting the wax-like base thin as watercolor, keeping his touch light as absolution.
Her fist slowly uncurled. Followed by a slow exhale.
“The burn isn’t deep.” He kept his words clinical. Detached. “There shouldn’t be scarring if you keep it covered.”
Unlike your back.
Unlike your shoulders.
Unlike every inch of you that still carries the Chancellor’s signature.
The gauze unrolled from its spool with a soft whisper. He wrapped three times, each pass precise. He gently secured the edges with fingers that refused to shake.
She watched him work. Those disarming eyes tracking every motion, every breath, every microscopic shift in his expression. Cataloguing him with dangerous attention to detail. He needed space.
“Lie back.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
“Your feet.” He gestured toward the foot of the bed.
Defiance flickered across her face—that stubborn lift of chin he was beginning to recognize. She wanted to refuse. Wanted to maintain some illusion of control in a situation where she had none.
He waited.
The fire crackled. Shadows danced across the walls. Then the bell tolled, the gong crashing over them like a wave, jarring and awakening.
She reclined against the pillows, spine rigid, bandaged arm cradled against her chest. His oversized shirt rode up as she moved, exposing the pale columns of her thighs, and Jack forced his gaze to the foot of the bed. To the task at hand.
He studied the damage. Scratches crosshatched her soles in a vicious lattice—some shallow, some deep. Small rocks had left angry red divots.
His stomach clenched.
This is what your philanthropy purchased.
He reached for her left foot. Cradled her heel in his palm, his thumb resting against the delicate arch where the worst of the scratches congregated.
She tensed but didn’t pull away when he pressed the damp cloth to her ruined skin.
He started with the spaces between her toes—cleaning away debris with small, careful strokes. The water in the pitcher clouded. A shard of something sharp caught the light.
“This will hurt.”
He extracted the shard of what looked like glass from beneath her smallest toe, and she flinched when it came free, a soft gasp escaping her throat.
“Sorry. How’s your throat?”
“Hurts. Like everything else.”
The confession landed as intended, with pointed accuracy. This was his fault.
“You should have used your safeword when Volkov gave you the chance. You could have ended this.”
“Would it have mattered?”
He looked sharply at her, then understood she was referring to what happened with Hadrian Welles. “Yes. Your words matter.”
“So does money.”
He knew what people would sell for a few lousy beans. “Some things are worth—”
“Please don’t talk to me about the cost of dignity when you live in luxury.”
He could have corrected her. Could have told her that he was born in the bowels of London and that he understood more about poverty than most ever could. But he said nothing.
Her desperation, her determination, her hunger, they were all part of her story, not his. “You’re right.”
It didn’t matter that he could still taste the metallic edge of starvation, still feel the hollow ache of wanting something he was never meant to have. It had been years since he had actually gone without, and he had lost the right to speak on such matters.
She didn’t make a sound when he applied the antiseptic, despite the sting. Another memory as permanent as his scars.
The Chancellor’s servants moved like ghosts through those halls, deaf and blind to his suffering back then. No matter how loudly he cried, no one would rescue him, no one would help.
So he’d stopped crying. Learned to clean himself up and stand again, even when his skin burned like fire and he shook from the pain. He clenched his teeth and bore it, just as she did now.
Controlled.
Soldiers have less composure.
Once clean, he worked the ointment into her ravaged soles. His thumbs pressed into her arch as the salve warmed on her skin.