Page 51 of Night of the Witch
His fingers are…gentle.
So gentle that it renders me immobile, and every argument I’d planned drains out of my mind.
How can someone so large touch me like I’m an eggshell? This doesn’t feel like his natural state,tenderness, but he deftly rolls up my sleeve and gets to work smearing balm on my skin.
He stays quiet. He seems comfortable in silence, but I decidedly amnot, and I shift on the chair, hating this closeness more each passing second, the way his dark eyes droop with sorrow when he finishes one wrist only to see wounds just as bad on the second.
There are flecks of green in his brown eyes. He has half his jaw-length dark hair pulled back, showing the way the tops of his rigid cheekbones redden slightly, and I realize I’m staring at him, and he knows it.
Schiesse, stop.
Focus on something else. Literallyanything else.
I sniff the air—mint. Lavender. A few other herbs in that salve he’s using.
I smile. “We’ll make a witch out of you yet, jäger.”
He flashes those eyes up to me. “The healing balm?” he guesses, tipping the jar.
I nod.
“Then every hexenjäger is a witch, for we all carry this in our supplies.”
“Which is one of the many holes in your theology.”
“It isn’tmytheology, need I remind you.”
“No, merely formed from the tenets of your religion, jäger.”
The kapitän sighs and finishes tying the last bandage to my wrist. “Otto.”
I pull my arms in, surveying his work, but I stiffen. “What?”
“My name. It’s Otto. Otto Ernst.”
“I know your name.” It cracks out of me like a whip.
He blinks.
There’s another of his pauses. But if he seeks to make me use his name, that’s one battle he willnotwin.
He seems to realize that, and he pushes to his feet. His shoulders tense—I hadn’t even realized they’d been relaxed.
“If you’re to take my sister’s place in the jail,” he starts—is his voice rough? I upset him. Good. “We need to start getting you to memorize the aqueduct layout—”
“Of course.” I stand and smooth my skirt. “We can go over that later tonight.”
He frowns at me. “And until then?”
“I need supplies. I’ll make potions before I go into the jail. If I’m going to be a prisoner again, I willnotbe defenseless.”
“You won’t be undefended. You’ll have me.”
He says it so simply, like he’s already guaranteed my safety.
I give him a look. “Reassuring. Butundefendedanddefenselessaren’t the same thing. I’ll need more than a few healing spells for the prisoners who are too ill to move; and I’m not going into that prison without enough spells to protect not just myself, but the other prisoners, should your ironclad escape plan go awry.”
His planisfairly ironclad, actually, but I say it with sarcasm anyway.
