Chapter 6

By the time I make it back to my room, everything hurts. Not in a dramatic way or in a way anyone would notice.

Just—everywhere. I shut the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting the quiet settle in. I slowly slide down the door until I am sitting on the cool floor. I drop my head into my hands.

How am I going to survive this? If I don’t find a way to escape, I am certain I will die. And I will be damned if my entrance into Eryndor is caused by this Gods forsaken school.

I stand up shakily and move toward the washroom, grabbing a cloth and rinsing it under cold water before pressing it to my lip. It stings. But in a way, it’s grounding. I need to know I’m still here.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and cringe. I look away before I start hating what I'm looking at.

I clean the worst of the blood, ignoring the dull ache spreading through my ribs and shoulder. I've had worse. I've had a lot worse.

Still, this is different. Not the pain, but the rest of it. The people. I’m a target in the worst way. The way they looked at me. The way he looked at me. I shove the thought away. I don't have time for useless thoughts while being in survival mode.

At least at Skyless Keep, I wasn’t always treated as a target. Only sometimes.

A knock hits the door breaking me of my thoughts. I One knock. Two. More insistent on the third one.

I don't move. I am not in the mood for any shit right now. Maybe if I ignore it, they will go away.

Another knock. I exhale slowly and push off the counter, walking back toward the door.

"I’m sleeping," I call.

"Yeah right." Luca says through the door. I can practically hear his smile.

I open the door just enough to glare at him.

"What do you want?" I ask. I shouldn’t be angry with him, but I am. Why does he feel the need to come to my rescue?

He looks entirely too pleased with himself. It irritates me even further.

"To check on you." he grins.

"I'm fine." I huff.

"Yeah," he says, glancing past me. "You look it."

I roll my eyes and start to close the door. He stops it with his hand.

"Rude," he says.

"Go away."

"You got jumped by two idiots and still showed up to dinner looking like nothing happened."

"I didn't go to dinner."

"Exactly." he smiles again. How does this kid smile so much?

I hesitate. Just for a second. He notices. Then he steps inside anyway. Like he lives here.

"Make yourself at home," I mutter, shutting the door behind him.

"Already did," he says, glancing around. "Still cozy."

I move back toward the washroom, grabbing the cloth again and pressing it to my lip. He watches. And he quiet for once. Which is... new.

"I’m sorry for jumping in, I just couldn’t watch it any longer," he says softly after a second.

"I was handling it."

"You were getting destroyed." he huffs, without a smile this time.

"I was still standing." I say with a smirk.

"Barely."

I shoot him a look.

"Why are you still here?’

He shrugs slightly.

"Someone has to make sure you don't die on day one."

"I didn't even come close to dying."

"Yet." He says clearly unamused.

I huff out a quiet breath, pressing the cloth harder than necessary.

He steps closer slowly. Like he's approaching something that might bite.

"Let me help," he says softly.

"No."

"Maeve." he pleads.

"No."

He pauses. He stares at me with a softness in his eyes that makes me nauseous. I'm not used to softness.

"Please?"

I blink at him.

That.. was not what I expected. I lower the cloth slightly.

"Why?"

He shrugs. But it's not careless this time.

"Because you're pretending you're fine," he says. "And you're not."

I stare at him. For too long. The silence is uncomfortable.

Then, reluctantly, I lower my hand.

He leans in slightly, examining the cut on my lip, the bruising already forming along my jaw. His expression tightens. Not in disgust. Not in judgment. Something else. Something softer.

I will not allow myself to be distracted by some pretty boy. Even if said pretty boy is extremely attractive.

"You hit back harder than I thought you would," he says after a second.

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" I laugh.

"Yeah."

"It doesn't."

He smiles slightly.

I shake my head, reaching for the cloth again. He catches my wrist gently. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop me.

"Here," he says.

And before I can argue, he takes the cloth and does it himself. He lightly dabs the blood away. Extra carefully around the cuts and forming bruises.

I go still. Not because I want to. Because I don't know what to do. Every nerve in my body is on end. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me this gently.

"Relax," he murmurs softly. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I wasn't worried about that." I say with a shaky voice.

"Good."

A pause. He pulls back and stares at me as if he is trying to memorize my face.

"You're bad at accepting help, you know that?" he grins.

"I don't need help." I say sharply.

"You needed it today."

Then I go silent. Because I know that he’s right. I know I needed help today, and I know that he’s the one that helped. So why does I have to be such a raging bitch instead of feeling grateful?

Luca continues treating my injuries with a maddening amount of patience.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

“I am holding still.”

“You flinched.”

“Because that hurts.”

“You’re impossible,” he chuckles.

“And yet, here you are.” I smile at him. A real smile.

Despite his words, there wasn’t an ounce of irritation in his voice.

He stepped closer, gently pressing the chilled cloth against the cut along my cheekbone. I hissed softly at the cold, and his expression immediately softened.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

His hand lingered near my jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin as he inspected another bruise. Such a simple touch, and yet my pulse betrayed me all the same.

I look at him. Really look at him. He's not pushing or forcing. He's not expecting anything. He's just... there.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. And I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it.

His dark waves falling carelessly over his forehead. His lashes are ridiculously long, framing those golden-brown eyes that seem to hold sunlight even in the dead of night. There is a faint scar near his chin I’ve never noticed before, and the sight of it only makes him more unfairly handsome.

Not polished. Not perfect. Just Luca.

Warm skin, broad shoulders, and strong hands that somehow wielded both blades and tenderness with equal ease. A crooked smile that appears every time he teases me. And gods help me, that smile alone was enough to make my thoughts scatter like birds.

But it wasn’t his face that undid me. It was this. His gentleness.

The quiet focus in his expression as he wiped away blood that wasn’t his. The care in his touch. The way he looked at me as though my pain somehow mattered to him. Like I mattered to him.

I realized, with no small amount of horror, that I had been staring far too long.

His eyes lifted from the cut on my cheekbone and meet mine. For a moment, neither of us speak. And perhaps it’s the silence, or the warmth of his hand against my skin, but I suddenly become painfully aware of how close he is.

My breath catches.

And then that familiar crooked grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” he asks softly.

Heat floods my cheeks.

“Nothing.” I look away.

His grin widened.

“Maeve.” he teases.

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something.”

A low chuckle escapes him, warm and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Oh, I definitely know something.”

I narrow my eyes.

“And what would that be?” I bark.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“That you stare at me when you think I’m not looking.”

My heart promptly forgot how to function.

He continues staring at me with those gorgeous eyes. I lean back slightly, crossing my arms.

"You done?" I ask.

"Well no, but I assume this is the part you push me away again. Right, Thalorien?”

I roll my eyes, and also avoid making eye contact.

He steps back. But he doesn't leave.

"You're going to stay, aren't you?" I ask.

"Maybe." he laughs.

I roll my eyes and sigh.

"You're exhausting." I say, but I don’t really mean it.

"You like me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing." he says without missing a beat.

I shake my head. But I don't tell him to leave. Because the room doesn't feel as quiet with him in it. And I'm starting to realize, I don't hate that as much as I should.