Chapter 20 #3
“I thought you and needles were old friends, Seamstress?” he crooned, holding it up to the light.
“Now cease trying to murder me with your eyes and listen to what I am about to tell you.” He padded to the bed and sank into the chair, my eyes fixed on his mesh.
“I said stop trying to murder me, not do it harder.”
I glanced at his throat, masked by chain, to where his laugh had reverberated from. It was a sport to imagine all the ways I could tear it from him.
“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” I sneered, continuing my scrutiny, searching for a chink in the armour. His torso was exposed, only a linen shirt lying between his flesh and my teeth.
“More lies.” He sighed, the chain of his veil jostling with the shake of his head. “It is a wonder you can even speak with the weight of them pressing on your chest.”
I glanced to my neckline at the same time as he.
“It is no concern of yours what I have on my chest,” I hissed, teeth gritted.
“You really need to stop talking about your chest.”
“I—you… That is not what I—”
“Shh.” An impossibly large hand gripped the bottom of my face, smothering my nose and mouth, silencing my protests.
I squirmed, gasped, kicked my feet, bunching the linens as I did in a futile attempt to escape.
Held fast by the chains, with no other option at my disposal, I bit.
I bit down hard, letting my teeth sink in as far as they would go.
He didn’t so much as flinch, but released some pressure, allowing me to draw in a mouthful of air through the gaps in his fingers. I unclasped my jaw, watching in horror as the thin line of spit stretched and stretched as he moved his hand away, the long trail of it a tether between us.
Eyes upturned, I glared into his mask of metal as he raised his hand to his face, the trail of my saliva now a thin thread on his wrist. He held it there, fingers splayed, palm outward, as if offering it to me. As if I could take it or swat it away.
“You bit me.”
“No.”
“You bit me,” he repeated, rotating his hand so I could see the angry red marks, like two crescent moons.
“I…” Chains rattled with my fidgeting. “You were going to suffocate me.”
“Another of your lies? Tell me, laurel; were you a seamstress or an actress? What else could explain these dramatics?”
I stared at him, mouth agape. Did death no longer faze him? Was he so steeped in it, so saturated by it, that murdering a woman in his own sheets was as mundane as changing the bed linens?
“Dramatics? You are about to end my life. Forgive me if I may seem a little hysterical.”
His helm left his hand to confront me with its gleam.
“Kill you? I am not inclined to bring another tower down upon our heads. The templum has had enough renovations for today.” His shoulders raised in a disbelieving scoff, almost a chuckle. “You actually bit me.” He turned his palm this way and that, inspecting my mark with a perverse curiosity.
“Yes, I bit you,” I admitted, eager to move on. “You aren’t about to offer me? The needle…” I inclined my head towards his other hand, where its sharp point glinted in the sconce light. Following my gaze, his helm hung to one side, limp as if in exasperation.
“The needle, Seamstress, is to sew up your hand.” He motioned to the items on the table: a strip of leather, boiled gut string, gauze, and a small glass bottle, its clear contents swirling with herbs I did not recognise.
My face burned.
“How was I to guess that?” I snapped, too tired, in too much pain, too drained of any ability to care about my tone any longer. This strange druid seemed not to care either, considering my head was still attached to my neck.
“Clearly you are no scholar, but I thought a seasoned seamstress would understand that a needle has uses beyond mere embroidery.”
I eyed his hand, ready to bite it again should it veer any closer. “The last time I saw a needle, Druid, it was not to hem a pretty dress, but to summon a plague and butcher my hand.”
“Your Holiness,” he corrected, setting the needle down on a clean strip of gauze.
“Or have you so soon forgotten how to address a loyal servant of the Blood God in the last few turns?” He picked up the boiled thread, unravelling a yard of it.
“The offering has always been brutal, if not”—he seemed to hunt for the word—“necessary. Though…” He draped the thread across the length of the table and reached for the ring of keys at his belt, nestled beside an embroidered pouch and a small dagger.
I eyed them both, wondering if he stashed poison in the bag or if the blade posed the greater threat.
A ghost of pressure on my forearm heralded the click of a shackle opening; my ruined hand now unbound. “This was rather uncalled for.”
My eyebrows leapt to my hairline.
“Hmm.” A small sound slipped from the back of my throat, too quick to swallow.
“It surprises you I do not condone this?” he asked, taking my hand. Another sound threatened to escape at the feel of him, of his bare fingers looping around mine, but I caught it, burying it deep within the pits of me. The touch of a Dendralis was never a kind one.
“I supposed you cherished cruelty, not condemned it.”
Careful not to touch the ravaged flesh, he rotated my hand, placing the back of it on the warmth of his knee.
“What have I told you about butchers and mercy?” I repressed another shudder at the contact, but tensed, trying not to rest the full weight of my hand on him, though the motion sent fresh bolts of pain up my arm.
“Resistance will only cause more pain. Relax your hand, let it lie on me.”
I pushed out a breath, trying to loosen the tension coiled tight within me, though it resisted all the same.
“Seamstress,” he warned.
I closed my eyes, willing my heart to stop battering my ribs. It calmed after a moment, the keen burn of my wound incentive enough.
“Better.”
His praise sent a spike of heat searing through my middle, and I went to pull away.
In the same breath, he pinned my hand with the vast expanse of his own, lowering his helm to where they met.
Pooling on my forearm, his veil brushed my skin, the chain as finely woven as silk.
A soft, wet sensation traced from the base of my palm to my fingers, and I quivered, tingles scattering through me like thrown marbles.
It took a moment to comprehend what had just happened, what he had done.
“You… Did you just lick me?”