Suddenly, I feel his hand on my cheek, his thumb making small circles on my skin.
I look up at him, startled. Sweat beads on his forehead, his face white and bloodless. The corners of his mouth stretch into a half-smile. His hand lingers on my skin for a second before it moves, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear.
“You shouldn’t get blood on your hair,” he adds sheepishly.
I stare at him, caught in the moment. The light weight from his touch is gone but for some reason I feel bereft without it. Shaking my head, I try to dispel all those odd thoughts and focus on patching him up.
I do a couple more stitches before I need to wash my hands off and pat some of the blood away from his wound so it doesn’t obstruct my vision.
It hurts him. I can tell. But he stays unnaturally still, bearing it all. The paleness of his skin contrasts with the redness of the blood, making him look rather ethereal.
He’s an immortal, bleeding in front of me. At my mercy… The thoughts sneak through my mind and I can’t shake them off. Raised to see immortals as these bigger than life figures, so powerful they could step on us at any moment and take away our souls.
But seeing Nykander…knowinghim has changed everything. Immortals might have supernatural abilities, but they are just as fallible as us; just as prone to pain and suffering.
And despite the physical torment Nyakander is experiencing right now, I have a feeling his inner suffering is much greater.
I sneak a glance at him. His eyes have fluttered closed, his features shadowed with pain.
Before I can help myself, I reach for him, fitting my hand to his cheek as he’d done before. Surprise flickers in his gaze as his grey eyes meet mine.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I ask in a quiet voice.
His throat works as he swallows. My attention drifts lower, to his pink-hued lips and red tongue that peeks out.
“It is manageable,” he replies, his voice ragged and harsh.
“I am almost done. Bear it a little longer, all right?”
“As long asyouneed,” he replies heavily.
I retract my hand, heat traveling up my neck as I continue to stitch his wound. When I’m finally done, I cut the thread and knot it at the end. Then comes the powdered medicine followed by bandages.
I apply some of that powder to his other cuts too, though none of the other wounds are as bad, and none of them need stitches.
“Here,” I say as I hand him a small jar with a mix of anti-inflammatory plants I’d made a few days ago. “It should help prevent a fever.”
His brows go up in surprise and he looks at me questioningly but I shrug it off. It’s nothing special; after all, I wanted to ensure I’d have a fever remedy for him in case he fell ill again so the washroom incident would not happen again.
“Thank you.”
“Let’s get you comfortable.”
He lays on the bed and I pull the covers on top of him. Right as he hits the pillow, his lids become heavy.
“You should be more careful from now on, Nykander,” I whisper, still by his side.
His eyes closed, he mutters, “I made a lot of money. Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll treat you to something good.”
What?He almost bled to death and he’s thinking about money?
“Nykander—”
“There is a famous desert shop in Mesquine District. You’ve never been to the other districts, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’ll take you. Get some cakes. I think there’s a big bookstore around, too. We can buy some books…” he grumbles. “Or clothes, or whatever you want.”
