Chapter Four: Certain Powers
"The game is over, Sarah," he said, towering over her.
"Do it then," she said simply, looking up at him from where she lay. Then, she turned her head away from him, resting it on folded arms. At that moment—bleeding, broken—she looked at peace, satisfied that she had given her best effort.
At the angle her head was turned, he could see the worst of the wound. It still bled. He swallowed. "You mistake me. I am not going to hurt you." His voice was too dry. Husky. He tried again. "I would not. Not like this."
She slowly looked up at him, searching. Trying to make sense of his words.
He held the knife out to her gently.
She did not move. She did not take the knife. Strange. Instead, she just kept staring at his hand as though she was expecting it to strike at any moment.
"Will you take it, Sarah?"
She shook her head slightly, an inch to the left and back. Even that small movement seemed to cause her pain. She dropped her head back onto her arms.
He made a frustrated sound. So stubborn.
He crouched gracefully at her side and slowly reached for her, the flashing knife bright against to his black glove. She made no move to pull away. She did not even look up to see what he was doing. Perhaps she had reached the limit of her defiance. He frowned.
His hand was so close. His smallest finger would only have to move a fraction to find itself swathed in the tangled hair that spilled out around her.
He closed his hand tight. Until this was done, he would not touch her. He could not risk it. Instead, he opened his gloved palm against the dirty stones beside her. He held it there for a moment, fighting temptation. But he was in control. He pulled his hand back, and it came back without the knife.
He quickly stood straight again and without looking away from her, he moved backwards up the stairs, out of striking distance. Then he watched to see what she would do.
She lay still. Arms folded, head resting.
She was so still, he began to doubt himself. Why was she not moving? His heart beat violently. This was not a part of his plan. Too much inaction. Waiting had never been his strength.
Slowly, so slowly he thought he might be dreaming it, she turned her head. She saw the knife within reach. Hope flared in her eyes like a living thing. She grasped for it with clumsy fingers—wrapped them around the same place his own hands had been so recently, still warm from his heat.
Finally.
The girl struggled into a sitting position and tenderly dragged her weight across to rest her back up against the wall of the castle. Her eyes darted all around the cavernous staircase, looking all around, but sliding over him, determined not to look in his direction. For his part, he could look at nothing but her. He had almost lost her again.
She held onto the knife as though she was afraid it could disappear at any moment, melting through her fingers. Each shallow breath from her mouth created a foggy mist of vapour in the night's air, instantly absorbed by the surrounding chill. Almost like the castle was feeding off her, hungry for her warmth. Like it was trying to absorb her, with the faith that she would be able to breathe life into the clay.
It was such a mortal thing, to measure the passing of time. And yet, there was something about her, about being near her, that made the moments seem more worthy of being measured. He counted twenty-six puffs of air before she squared her shoulders and looked at him directly."Well, Goblin King? What now?"
He stiffened, startled that she had broken the silence. Swallowed. The Beast, never too far away, stirred once again. There she is. Smell her fear. She is yours. Make her yours.
He closed his eyes and collected his resolve. His will was stronger. The Beast snarled, backing down, but circling in a way that made it clear how quickly it would attack at the first sign of weakness.
When he opened his eyes again, he fixed his eyes on her and gestured to her ankle with a studied nonchalance. "If you will allow me, I would attend your wound."
Her eyes flickered. Surprise. She was so easy to read. But then, he was not altogether certain that he was masking his predatory gaze as effectively as he would wish. Probably not. Her eyes spoke of confusion and distrust. She looked at him as though she believed he would be as likely to consume her foot whole as he would be to inspect it for injury.
She absently ran a finger up and down the knife, then bounced it lightly in her hand as though she was reassured by its weight.
She nodded, once. It was all he needed.
He took slow strides towards her. Then he stood before her, on the same step. He softly lowered himself on one knee, near her feet. Her small body radiated nervousness, and he sensed that if he made any sudden movements, she would jerk away.
He breathed slowly and kept still, allowing her time to grow accustomed to the intimacy. He forced himself to lower his eyes, to break eye-contact with her so that he could focus on her injury. She had summoned him; called him to her side. He could not fail now.
He tried to fix his gaze on the ankle, swollen and bruised; partly hidden under her skirt. But his attention kept sliding to the corner of his eye where he could see her face. Behind her exhaustion, she was wary. Suspicious. She kept very still, the survival instincts of a weaker animal sensing a dangerous predator near. The knife by her side was set at a ready angle, in a way that showed she would be prepared to use it at a moment's notice. Good girl.
He leant his weight forward and pulled the dirt-stained hem of her skirt up a little; out of the way, sliding up her leg. There was only a brief moment of hesitation before he wrapped his hands lightly around her ankle. His fingers traced over her skin, gently probing the area for damage. He closed his eyes. He could feel the shattered bone. Every fragment.
It was not right, how fragile she was. How breakable. With no effort at all, he could exert the same amount of pressure on each one of her bones, could make them all snap.
He tore his hands off her foot and shifted his weight back away from her. The Beast was not stronger.
"That bad?" she said, with a grim smile.
He shook his head, clearing shadowy thoughts. "I will fix this, Sarah."
He looked down at his naked hand. He would take the time; do it right. He would not frighten her by rushing. There was a small part of the palm yet undamaged. He turned his back to her, shielding her from the sight as he used teeth to make a neat cut.
He kept his voice steady but avoided eye contact. "Prepare yourself. This will hurt."
He turned back to her and pressed the hand against her foot, applying pressure. She bore it stoically. Made no sound. She closed her mouth together, so tightly that the remaining colour fled from her bloodless lips, trapping any pain inside.
He searched for the broken parts of the bone, finding all the tiny shards. Then, concentrating, he began the slow process of fitting them back in place. He bound each piece back together as a whole, wrapping it with a warm magic and numbing the pain as best he could. The magic enveloped the area in an orange glow that spread up his arm from where he touched her.
The magic faded. He looked down to where his skin touched hers. Strange. The residual glow had not left. He held onto her ankle, unwilling to break the contact. "I have done my best, but it will still need rest. Don't put too much weight on it."
He risked looking up at her. She was closer than he had expected, and looking straight into his eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked down to where he was still holding her foot. He let it go.
She replaced his fingers with hers, running them over the ankle. "But that's amazing," she said. "It doesn't hurt at all. It feels like new."
"Trust me when I say it is not fully healed. I am no Healer."
Her face was a confused swirl of emotion. Something within him spoke firmly: retreat. Back away; give her space. A voice—but not the Beast. Some other part of him that had been long silent. It was almost painful to move away from her, now that he was finally so close, but he obeyed the impulse.
He raised himself to his full height and moved from her until he rested his back on the wall opposite, never looking away. And then, he waited. Watching to see what she would do.
Thanks for all of your support, it means a lot to me.
Especially all of the lovely reviews you've given me, which I have enjoyed to the exact same extent that any other normal person would. For example, the thought never crossed my mind to print them all out in different fonts on long strips of fabric so that I could knit them into a blanket that I could hug. Gosh, I love being normal.
Join me for Chapter the Fifth: Wherein the Noble Reader Will Have Cause to Enquire: Is This a Kissing Book?