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He breathes raggedly, his chest rising in quick jerks.

“I brought it for you. You said you were looking for it... it was a gift. That’s why I told you to follow me, but you never listen!”

I set the book on the cabinet. “You... you didn’t tell me anything, you simply pulled me!”

“It isn’t my fault if you are deaf!” he roars, his eyes narrowing in a wince.

I step forward, my gaze fixed on him.

“You have a fucking voice. Use it, damn it!”

He furrows his brows, the skin around his eyes tightening, the pain lancing across his forehead makes him grit his lips.

I see the blood descending, bright red.

“Malédiction...” I move closer. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Stay still.”

I turn toward the door, opening it just a crack, I poke my head out and spot my valet in the distance.

“Étienne, come here immediately!”

He enters breathless. “Oui, Viscomte?”

“Call a doctor at once.”

His gaze shifts to that insufferable man behind me.

“It is not necessary,” he interjects.

“It is necessary,” I retort, without taking my eyes off the blood.

“Allow me to check.”

My valet approaches him and scrutinizes the wound carefully.

“It is not very deep, sir. I don’t believe it requires stitches. Disinfecting it will suffice.”

He stares at me. “You see?”

“Étienne, bring what is needed.”

“Right away.”

He leaves without haste, but with a firm step.

I pull a white handkerchief from my waistcoat pocket and press it against his bleeding forehead. His lips twitch into a grimace, eyes flashing with annoyance.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, tightening the fabric. “It is your own fault.”

He fixes me, motionless.

I take a corner of his sleeve and guide him toward the back of a nearby armchair to make him sit.

My fingers burn, I release my grip and place the handkerchief on his forehead again, pressing firmly on the wound.