Chapter 5
Talia hesitated a moment longer, then walked across the floor and carefully picked up the pieces of the broken toy.
She knew she was taking a chance, but there was something about Klaus's air of confidence that made her believe him.
Not only believe him, but trust him—which was absurd.
She'd learned at a very early age not to trust anyone other than her sister.
And yet she found herself placing the broken pieces next to him on the shelf.
*Reciprocity.* He had made it sound like a mathematical equation, a simple exchange of services.
Nothing more complicated than balancing a ledger.
It made her wonder if he viewed everything through that cold, logical lens.
Did he see her as merely a variable in some calculation? A resource to be utilized?
He examined the pieces with the same serious concentration he’d applied to his injury.
They looked small and fragile in his huge hands, but he handled them with surprising delicacy.
Would he touch a woman the same way? The thought sent heat rushing to her cheeks as he looked up.
The cellar felt smaller than it had before, or maybe it was just him, taking up so much space with his presence.
The air between them felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a second, before returning to meet her gaze. The muscle in his jaw tightened before he turned back to the broken toy, and a confused mixture of disappointment and relief swept over her.
"The craftsmanship is adequate," he said. "The wood grain runs in a consistent direction. This will aid in proper alignment."
He detached a flat, metallic case from his belt, and opened it to reveal an array of small tools.
Some looked like tiny, intricate versions of tools she'd seen Jeremiah use in his shop, but others were completely alien.
She watched as he selected a slender, metallic rod. One end glowed with a faint blue light.
"What is that?"
"A molecular bonder. It will fuse the wood at the cellular level, creating a stronger join than the original structure."
She leaned closer despite herself. The light was mesmerizing, shifting through subtle shades of blue and violet.
He positioned the first horn against the reindeer's head, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he maintained the precise angle, then carefully ran the glowing tip along the break.
There was the faint smell of scorched wood, but there was no smoke and everywhere it touched, the wood merged, the fracture disappearing as if it had never existed.
"That's amazing. How does it work?"
He glanced up, those unsettling blue eyes meeting hers. For a moment she thought he wouldn't answer, that he'd dismiss her curiosity the way most men did. *Too complicated for you to understand. Don't worry your pretty head.* Instead, he gestured to the space beside him on the shelf.
"Sit. I will show you."
She hesitated. Sitting beside him would put them in close proximity, closer than was probably wise given the strange pull she felt in his presence. But her curiosity won out over caution. It always had.
She settled onto the shelf, careful to maintain a few inches of distance between them.
Even so, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, warmer than that of a human male.
The scent she'd noticed before was stronger now, that clean, cold smell like fresh snow mixed with something darker, almost spicy.
"Hold this." He handed her the reindeer's body.
His long fingers brushed hers as she took it, callused and rough despite their elegance. A jolt of awareness shot through her, and she forced herself to focus on the toy, turning it carefully in her hands.
"The second horn attaches here." He pointed to the remaining break with the tip of the bonder. "Do you see the angle?"
She studied the fractured wood, noting how the grain spiraled slightly. "It needs to align with the twist in the wood or it won't sit right."
"Correct." Something that might have been approval flickered across his face. "You have training?"
"I worked for a clockmaker back in the city. Well, clocks and other small mechanical devices.. But that was before."
"Before?"
She positioned the horn carefully, mimicking the angle she'd seen him use. "Before I gave up everything to come here and apparently make Theo's life miserable."
He took the horn from her and made a minute adjustment, rotating it perhaps a quarter degree before running the bonder along the seam.
"Did you enjoy your work in the city?"
"Very much."
"Then why did you leave?"
"Because Theo needed me. Because he is the only family I have left." Her throat threatened to close.
"The ties of one's house are very strong." There was an odd note in his voice, but before she could pursue the subject, he handed her the tool. "Your turn."
"What?"
"The leg. You will repair it."
"I can't possibly—"
"You can." He positioned the broken leg against the body, holding it steady. "Apply the light to the fracture line. Move slowly. The tool will do the rest."
She took the bonder with trembling fingers. It was lighter than she'd expected, balanced perfectly for precision work. A small depression near the base seemed designed for a thumb, and when she pressed it experimentally, the light extended with a soft hum.
"Slowly." His voice was close to her ear, and the warmth of his breath against her skin made her shiver. "Use steady pressure. Do not rush."
She brought the light to the break point. This close, she could see the individual fibers of wood, the way they'd torn apart when the toy fell. The light touched them and they began to blur, reaching for each other like living things.
"You're shaking."
"I don't want to ruin it." Which was true, but it wasn't the only reason for her nerves.
"You will not." His hand covered hers, steadying it, and the contact sent another jolt through her, stronger this time. "Breathe. Just focus on the line."
The light traced the fracture, and wood fused beneath it. She could feel him watching her, could sense his approval in the minute relaxation of his grip.
"Good. Continue."
The break was longer than the horns had been, running the circumference of the leg.
She moved the light slowly, watching the join disappear inch by careful inch.
Her world narrowed to the point where light met wood.
She'd forgotten this. Forgotten the peace that came from losing herself in the precision of a task, the satisfaction of making something broken whole again.
His hand stayed over hers, warm and steady. At some point she'd leaned into him, her shoulder pressed against his chest, and she could feel the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. The last of the fracture sealed.
"Well done." His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her back.
*I should move.* Instead, she found herself turning her head, looking up at him. He was so close she could see flecks of lighter blue in his eyes, like ice reflecting sunlight.
"Thank you," she said. "For showing me."
"It was logical. You learn quickly so it was an efficient use of instruction time."
"Right. Logical." Why did that word sting? He was being practical. Helpful. She should be grateful, not disappointed that he saw this as nothing more than an efficient exchange of knowledge.
She started to pull away, but his hand tightened fractionally on hers.
"The child is lucky to have you."
"Is he? I don't know how to comfort him. I don't know how to grow a garden or mend clothes properly or manage a farm or any of the things Sarah could do with her eyes closed. I'm failing him."
He released her hand and took the repaired reindeer, turning it in the light. The joins were invisible.
"You brought me here. Into your home. Despite the risk."
"That's different."
"How?"
"You would have died."
"Yes. And you chose to prevent that, despite the considerable danger I represent. Despite the additional burden on your already strained resources." He set the reindeer down carefully. "That is not the action of someone who fails to care."
She wanted to thank him, to explain what his matter-of-fact assessment meant to her, but the words tangled on her tongue. Instead, she found herself noticing the angle of his jaw, the way his long white hair fell across his shoulders, and the curve of those obsidian horns.
*Stop it.*
She needed to leave. Needed to put some distance between herself and this alien who looked at her like she was a puzzle to be solved, who made her feel seen in a way she hadn't experienced since—
Since ever, actually.
"I should check on Theo," she said, but she didn't move. "The toy is perfect. Better than new."
"The molecular bonds are stronger than the original wood structure. It will not break again under normal use."
"That's..." She couldn't look away from him, trapped in the burning blue gaze. "That's good."
"Talia."
Her name in his voice, that deep rumble with the slight hesitation over the syllables, made her breath catch.
"Yes?"
"You should leave."
"Right. I should." She still couldn't seem to make her body obey her brain's increasingly frantic commands to get up and move away from him.
"I find your proximity..." He paused, as if searching for the right word. "Disrupting."
"Disrupting." Not attractive, not appealing, but disrupting. Like a malfunction. "I'm sorry."
"Do not apologize." His hand lifted, hovering near her face, not quite touching. "It is not an unpleasant disruption."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. His hand was so close she could feel the heat of it against her cheek.
If she turned her head, just slightly, her skin would brush his palm.
She wondered what that would feel like. Whether his touch would be as careful and precise as it had been with the broken toy, or if there was something less controlled beneath that rigid discipline.
*This is insane. He's an alien. An injured alien you're hiding in your cellar. This cannot happen.*
"I should go," she repeated, and this time she forced herself to jump to her feet, putting distance between them even as everything in her screamed to close the gap instead.
His hand dropped back to his side. His expression had returned to that neutral mask, but she could see tension in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he was not looking at her.
"I'll bring you some broth. And more water."
"Thank you."
She made it to the door before his voice stopped her again.
"Talia."
She turned. He met her eyes, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw something raw there, something that made her pulse jump.
"I am not accustomed to feeling gratitude. It is... disrupting."
A smile tugged at her lips despite everything. "Seems we're both disrupted then."
"Indeed."
She left the room before she could do something stupid like go back to him, before she could test whether that spark between them would ignite if she gave it the slightest bit of fuel.
In the kitchen, she stood with her back against the closed cellar door, her heart still racing.
The reindeer sat in her hand, perfectly restored.
She could still feel the phantom warmth of his hand over hers, guiding her movements, and still smell the strange, clean scent of him.
*This is a problem,* she thought. *This is a very large problem.*
But part of her, the part that had been dormant since she'd left the city and her tools and her small, ordered life behind, whispered that maybe it wasn't a problem at all. Maybe it was a solution to a question she hadn't known she was asking.
She pushed away from the door and headed for the stairs.
Theo needed her, whether he believed it or not.
That had to be enough. But a small, traitorous voice in the back of her mind wondered what it would be like to be needed by someone else.
By someone who looked at her like she was more than a woman failing to fill shoes she'd never wanted to step into.
By someone who made her feel like herself again.
She found Theo curled on his bed, face buried in his pillow. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, and her heart cracked a little wider.
"Theo, sweetheart."
He didn't look up. She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, setting the reindeer on the quilt where he could see it.
"Klaus fixed Glimmerhorn."
That got his attention. He lifted his head, eyes red and swollen, and stared at the toy. Slowly, carefully, he reached for it. His fingers traced the places where the breaks had been, searching for the joins.
"I can't find where it broke."
"He used something called a molecular bonder that fuses the wood back together at the cellular level."
Theo's eyes widened. "Magic."
"No, just more technology. Very advanced technology."
"It's magic," he insisted, clutching the reindeer to his chest. He bit his lip, then looked up at her. "Thank you."
"Klaus did most of the work. I just watched and helped a little."
"But... but you knew it was important."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry I said those things." The words came out in a rush, muffled against the reindeer's wooden back. "I don't hate you. I just—sometimes I get so mad and I don't know why and then I say things I don't mean and I can't take them back."
She put a careful arm around his shoulders, rejoicing when he didn't immediately pull away.
"I know, sweetheart. I know."
"I miss them so much."
"Me too."
They sat like that until his breathing steadied and he looked up at her.
"Can I see Klaus again later?"
"We'll see. He needs to rest and heal."
He bit his lip again. "He said he couldn't bring them back. That he's not magic."
"I'm afraid he's right."
"I know." He traced one of the reindeer's antlers. "But I thought maybe if I wished hard enough... that's stupid, right?"
"It's not stupid to hope, but sometimes we hope for things that can’t happen."
"Do you think Papa would like Klaus?"
The question surprised her. "I think your papa would be grateful to anyone who helped his son feel better."
"I think he'd like him. Papa liked people who could make things."
"He did."
He nodded, then announced. "I'm hungry."
"I'll make breakfast."
"Do we have any eggs?"
"A few." She'd been saving them for a special occasion, but she thought this qualified. Rising to her feet, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead and smiled at him. "But go wash up first."
He scampered off to the washbasin, and she headed back downstairs, the ghost of Klaus's touch still warm on her hand. For the first time since she'd arrived at this forsaken homestead, she felt like maybe she wasn't entirely failing at everything.
And if her thoughts kept drifting back to blue eyes and careful hands and the word "disrupting" spoken like a confession, well. That was between her and the carved wooden ornaments collecting dust on the mantle.