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Setting my cleaning supplies down in the kitchen, I wash my hands before putting together a small plate of leftovers and a mug of water. I stare down at the items on the counter, dreading the next part of my task.
Perhaps, I can just leave it all outside Cyprian’s door.
Satisfied with my plan, I quietly make my way upstairs. Pausing outside Cyprian’s door, I frown as I hear a strange sound from within.
I open my mouth to say something, but think better of it, instead bending to place the plate of food on the floor. Only, the door swings open before I can.
“Hazel,” Cyprian says in a sharp whisper. “Come in.”
I hesitate, still half bent over as I try to think of a reason to refuse. Straightening, I start to say something, but stop as my eyes fall to his bare chest.
“What happened?” I gasp.
“Please, not here,” he says, his eyes darting toward the stares as he steps to one side and reaches to pull me inside his room, quickly shutting the door behind him.
“Who did this to you?”
He laughs sharply at this before it turns into a cough.
“Idid this to me,” he answers once he can speak again, brushing past me to throw open his wardrobe and pull out a new shirt.
I can’t help but stare at the bloody lacerations and bruises that litter his torso. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost swear he’d been beaten to within an inch of his life at some point in the past few days.
“Tell me, honestly. What happened?”
Cyprian sighs, his shoulders tensing for a moment before he drops his head in defeat and slowly turns to look at me. Our eyes meet, and for a moment I see that same dark ocean of sadness within them that I’ve felt for so long.
“I got in a fight, that’s all. Nothing new.”
“But who would do this to you?”
“Look, I wasn’t lying when I said I did this to me,” Cyprian answers. “I picked the fight. Iwantedto fight. I wanted to feel pain.”
I blink at him. Of course, him getting into fights isn’t anything new, but I’ve never seen him like this.
As far as I know, Cyprian doesn’t lose his fights.
“Why?”
His eyes pull away from mine as he turns back to the wardrobe.
“Because,” he starts, “because I deserve as much. I deserve to feel what my family has put you through. What I haven’t been man enough to protect you from.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing as he grabs a clean pair of pants and tosses them onto the bed. I watch as he starts pulling on the new shirt.
“Wait,” I say, and he stops mid-movement. “You’ll ruin the shirt before you even get it buttoned in that state.”
Cyprian cocks his head slightly to the side, his brow furrowing as he lifts his gaze to meet mine. I look away nearly as quickly as I turn to set the plate down on the nightstand.
Crossing to him, I pull a clean rag out of my apron pocket and dip it in the mug of water before gently pressing it to one of the lacerations on his chest. He doesn’t so much as hiss in pain, the slight flare of his nostrils the only indication that I’m causing him any discomfort.
Cyprian doesn’t speak, choosing instead to watch in silence as I carefully clean the fresh and dried blood from his upper body.
“There, that should do for now,” I say, stepping back to take one last look at him. His skin, while still bearing the marks of his fight, is free of blood.
As my eyes travel over him, I can’t help but admire the beauty of his form. It’s not altogether unlike the statues I’ve seen in larger towns and cities. He’s taller than Amadeus, his body well-proportioned and honed to fight.
It’s only as my eyes drop lower, tracing the lines of his abs that I suddenly look away. My cheeks burn with heat as I realize what I’ve just been doing.
