Page 12 of Powerful

He strides over to his crumpled bed where he dumps the bundle of fabric, deeming it a safe distance from me and my staining hands. ‘Well, maybe if I had to pay three silvers for you too, I’d be a little more worried.’

Plagues, I’ve never paid that much for fabric. Then again, I rarely pay for fabric, considering that Pae has her own methods of acquiring it for me.

He’s suddenly towering over me once again, eyeing my bloody hand while I try my best not to wince in pain. An accusatory look lifts his eyebrows. ‘Snooping?’

‘Maybe a little,’ I admit with a grumble.

He lifts my hand, his hold shockingly gentle as he examines it. ‘How the hell did you manage to do this?’

‘It’s a gift, really,’ I sigh. ‘The only sharp object I trust myself with is a needle. And even that can be dangerous.’

‘All right.’ The hand he places on my back is light, feeling like the phantom of a touch, as though I’m simply imagining it. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up. Out of the goodness of my heart, I might add.’

I glance over my shoulder at him. ‘I thought you weren’t giving any of that to me?’

‘You’ve forced my hand.’

He guides me towards the intimate half of the room I haven’t dared venture into. The half that feels too personal for my prodding.

His disheveled bed looms closer with each step, along with a string of makeshift cabinets lining the opposite wall. I stop before I collide with the counter, turning to give him a questioning look.

That’s when my feet leave the ground.

I gasp, possibly squeal, when he lifts me onto the surface with ease.

The gawk I give him is met with a dry look. ‘I’d rather you not bloody my counter while trying to get up here.’

His hands are still firm on my hips while my breath is still lodged in my throat. I attempt to blink the bewildered look from my face. ‘Right. Yeah, of course.’

He manages to pull most of his hair into a strap, though several pieces fall around his face, some slipping down his neck.

My face flushes at the sight, as though seeing his bare chest earlier was less of a distraction than the sight of his messy hair.

Grabbing my injured hand in one of his own, he usesthe other to lift a canteen of water off the counter beside me. After unscrewing the cap with his teeth, he tips the liquid out onto my palm. Cool water meets my bloody gash, stinging as it seeps into the slice now drowning in crimson swirls.

I bite my lip in an attempt to ward off the tears welling in my eyes. I’ve never been much good with pain. Never needed to be. But I refuse to be ashamed of my softness. Gentleness is the strength that fragility lacks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he starts quietly, ‘that something of mine has already wounded you.’

I shrug slightly. ‘And I’m sorry about your knife.’

His eyes flick up to mine. ‘And why is that?’

‘Because I got it all bloody.’

I happen to look up in time, witnessing the beautiful accident that has happened.

I’ve made him smile.

At first, it looks as though he’s trying to fight it, like a habit that has been long broken. And then it’s all white teeth and crinkled eyes; smile lines and deep chuckles.

It transforms his face, painting his features in warmth. His icy expression melts, revealing soft accents and a stunning smile. The thin scar gracing his lipsstretches into something much softer, something far less intimidating.

This is the face of a boy who hasn’t yet been hardened by life itself.

‘So, he does smile!’ I say, wearing one of my own.

And then I immediately regret opening my mouth. It’s as though the words have smothered the spark that lit up his face. The stony expression suddenly seeps back in. ‘Don’t go getting used to it.’

---