Chapter 4 #2
Mum did a lot of stuff on her own. She was a good fixer. And I loved her, I did, but she never had time. So she never had time to teach me anything like that.
Skills not passed down.
Best I can do is…
My mind snags.
I don’t know what life skills I have.
Survival skills are lacking, too.
Without Bee, I wouldn’t have made it this far.
Samick has kept me alive, too.
But if I had to do all that on my own?
I doubt I could change a broken wheel on a bicycle, or fix a torch, like the headlamp in my backpack I carried around for ages, but never fixed, because it’s not in my skillset.
Mum could have probably done it.
It isn’t a happy thought.
It would’ve been nice if she taught me something along the way, like where hot water comes from, what a pilot light is and where to find it.
My mouth tucks into the corners of my cheeks and I drop my head.
The bone of my chin digs into the dip of my clavicle.
Water rushes over me, my face, my lips, my eyes, my nostrils.
It drowns me.
And I let it.
For a long while, I just drown.
Then, with a reluctant sigh, I reach for the soap bar.
If I could stay here for hours, I would.
But if the hot water doesn’t run out, then Samick will cut my time, and I don’t want to leave here even a bit dirty.
So I wash.
Thoroughly.
With a hand towel way too big for this job, I lather and scrub. No better smoothness than after a soapy cloth.
And I feel smooth.
And clean.
I run the soapy towel over my face, then let the water rinse the suds away.
Even just the sound of the shower is soothing, and if I keep my head under the stream, I don’t hear the hailstorm so much.
That’s still battering away outside.
The cold air nips at me around the warmth of the shower rain, but it doesn’t rush me.
I take my time, kneading and working the shampoo into my scalp, stroking and finger-combing it through the lengths of my hair.
I had a habit of this in the Before. Really working in the shampoo.
Mum taught me it’s the best way to let the fragrance get into the strands. Just give it time. So as it sits, I brush my teeth.
And finally, when I rinse it out, every other part of me is sparkling clean. I wash out my mouth, too, and gently set my toothbrush on the soap holder, careful to balance it so it doesn’t get infected by shower grubbiness.
It all washes over me.
The storm, the water, the echo of the shower room—and, for a while, I forget I’m not alone.
I forget Samick is here.
On the bench.
Waiting.
The chill in the air nips at me.
And it reminds me of him.
I tuck my chin to my shoulder—and look over the shower room at Samick.
My heart lurches.
Lounged on the bench, his back is slumped against the wall.
A sculpted statue of indifference. His thumb brushes over the hilt of a knife holstered to his hip.
A glass blade with speckles of black and gold.
He almost looks bored. Uninterested, a picture of indifference.
But his stare is lifted from beneath his lashes—
And those eyes burn.
They burn green.
A green I have never seen in his irises before, the hue of jade gemstones, and it’s like looking into pockets of the universe.
It startles me, the mystical depths of his eyes—eyes that explore me.
It doesn’t feel like his wandering gaze just considers me, a frog to be dissected. It feels like the intensity of his stare is dragging over me like jagged daggers cut from rich jade gemstones.
I’m frozen under the intensity of it.
The way he grazes his stare over the curve of my waist, along the patch of freckles on my hip, then drags it to my bellybutton—
There, his attention hooks for a beat, before he lifts his stare… and my cheeks burn, hot.
There’s no modesty in how he stares at my breasts.
My freckles are pale under the warmth of the torchlight, but his sight is sharp, and so he can probably count each one.
There’s a hardness on his face, carved from stone. It doesn’t match the way he sits, like he’s just lounging around as he waits.
Then he flings that hard stare up at me.
My bones cringe.
His voice is as stony as his face, “What is that?”
I blink, once, twice, then utter the breathy question, “What?”
My voice should be drowned out by the shower rainfall, the storm outside, but he hears it.
He looks at my naval. “That.”
I touch my fingers to it, as though to hide it. “A… It’s a bellybutton.”
A frown knits his brow. “Button?”
For a heartbeat, I just part my lips around an answer I don’t have.
The warmth of the shower is starting to cool. Droplets snake into my mouth.
“It’s…” The explanation falters on my tongue—because I remember, he doesn’t have one.
None of the fae have bellybuttons.
So how the hell do I explain one to him?
I look down at it, my fingers pressed into the skin around the divot.
Water threads through my fingers.
I watch the droplets snake and weave over my knuckles. “It’s part of how we’re formed in the womb.”
Best I can do.
And it’s good enough.
Samick’s frown fades.
A heartbeat passes before he lifts his gaze over my shoulder, then down the curve of my back.
I should feel more… exposed.
More vulnerable.
I think I’m just frozen.
There’s interest, there’s curiosity, there’s intensity in the way he looks at me—but still…
I feel safe with him.
Ever since Rust came back to camp.
I’m not an idiot, I know there are limits to his protection.
But right now, I don’t feel unsafe.
I hold onto what he told me, his blatant disgust for humans.
It makes sense.
“You’ve never seen a human body before.”
Samick doesn’t meet my gaze, not as he traces the outline of my ass, then down the length of my legs.
“No.”
That’s his answer.
Plain. Firm. Neutral.
But his eyes still burn with that jade hue.
“Bee said humans are in your world,” I tell him, and his gaze snaps to mine. “That you have bargains for babies, and that’s how halflings and kintas are made.”
His lip curls at the word kintas, but only for a moment. “I make no bargains with humans.”
“So you’ve never been with a woman?” I reach for my soaked mop of hair, rinsed of shampoo, and I start finger-combing the strands. “Like a human one?”
His lashes lower, casting shadows down the pallor of his face. “Only fae.”
Maybe it’s only a thing in the light lands.
The part of the fae world Bee is from.
But to Samick, in his part of the world, my body is as alien to him as his was to me.
I’ve gotten used to it over the months, but his white blood made me sick to my stomach, his smooth torso with no bellybutton churned my insides, the points of his ears, the sharper teeth hidden in his mouth, the inhuman colour of his eyes, the way he moves…
It all, frankly, icked me.
Now, time has passed, and I guess I’ve gotten used to it.
But it’s like when he noticed my hair for the first time. Or now, that he watches me, still watching as I comb out my hair, he inspects every difference on my body.
But it’s not the same way I looked at him.
Those jade eyes are green flames in the dim light, rinsing over the watery glisten of my legs.
There’s no disgust on his face.
But there’s an edge.
A curiosity that has his jaw tightening slightly.
The subtle curl of his fingers, as though to dig his nails into the meat of his palm.
I wash, feeling the gradual fade of the warmth, knowing that the cold water is coming—and that he’s watching me.
I must be out of my fucking mind, but I think… I think he’s—
No.
I shove that thought down.
Turning to face the pipes, I clench my eyes and let the water pour down my face.
But the cold of the shower room is rushing me.
I feel it creeping up my back like frost.
A sigh puffs out my cheeks.
Time’s up, I guess.
I reach for the tap—
But I freeze the moment a breath of icy air brushes the crown of my head.
My lashes flutter, a stunned blink.
Slowly, I turn my chin to my shoulder.
Samick…
Samick isn’t on the bench anymore.
I turn more, my spine twisting with my uneasy steps—until I’m staring at inky darkness.
Leathers.
His chest, muscular and strong, sheathed in glistening black leather.
I blink, then lift my stare up the pallor of his neck, then the smooth cut of his jaw, the cherry blossom pink of his lips—
And the breath is shoved out of me as I meet those dark jade eyes, like shadows are moving through them.
Samick towers over me.
My feet pad on the soaked towels as I turn all the way to face him. An ache springs in my neck as I look up at his face.
My heart lurches this time to my throat—and sticks there.
Strokes of shadows slash over his cheeks. The mint of his breath brushes over my forehead, and I can taste it.
I slide a small step back.
And the tap presses into my spine, stopping me.
Samick’s head slowly tilts to the side. Strands of light hair brush over his brow.
He just stares at me, lashes low over those strangely dark green eyes, shower rain falling between us.
Then a breath cuts through me.
He reaches through the drizzle—and his fingertips press into the dimple of my bellybutton.
I cringe back into the tap and it digs into my spine, but I hardly feel it over the unwelcome tickling pressure of his fingertip in my fucking bellybutton.
Water falls onto his hand, gliding over the healing bruise, along his knuckles, down his fingers.
His touch doesn’t leave my bellybutton—but his stare doesn’t leave my face, either.
Watching me, he presses firmer.
The nerves alight.
I choke on a dense sound, something too close to a laugh.
I bite down on the insides of my cheeks and steel myself against the tickling sensation.
I don’t dare laugh.
A fleeting frown kisses his brow before he blinks, then he drags his fingertips from my bellybutton, and up the starved line that cuts between my ribs.
My breath shudders.
It utters out of me, chopped and hacked.
And still, he watches my face, studies the heat on my cheeks, the stunned daze of my eyes, the pinched line of my lips.
His touch leaves a trail of tickling skin, all the way to the curve of my breast—
A breath cuts through me, sharp.