5.The injured soul

The adrenaline that had carried us through the suffocating crawlspace of the bookstore was finally beginning to fade, leaving behind a cold, biting reality. We slipped out through the back alley, moving like ghosts through the edge of the private woods bordering the estate. The rain had stopped, but the canopy above still dripped rhythmically, the silent trees standing like ancient guards watching our every move.

​Julian’s pace was slowing. His breathing, usually so controlled and detached, had grown heavy, ragged with the effort of masking his pain. I could see the dark stain spreading rapidly down his sleeve, dripping from his fingertips onto the damp earth.

​Without a word, I stopped. I reached down, ignoring the cold mud clinging to my boots, and gripped the hem of my long, red silk dress. The fabric was heavy, expensive, a remnant of a masquerade gala that now felt like it belonged to a completely different lifetime.

​Rip.

​A sharp, violent tear echoed through the quiet forest as I ripped a wide, thick strip of the fabric from the hem. The sound was loud, almost taboo in the heavy silence, but I didn't care.

​My hands trembled violently not just from the freezing night air, but from the terrifying realization of how close we had just come to dying. I stepped into his space, my breath hitching as I came face to face with the man I was supposed to hate.

​"Hold still," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the rustle of the leaves.

​I lifted his mangled arm gently, trying not to wince as the fresh, hot blood coated my palms. I wrapped the crimson silk tightly around the deep gash, binding the wound with a desperate, firm pressure. In the pale, unforgiving moonlight filtering through the branches, it was hard to tell where the luxury of the silk ended and the stark reality of his blood began. They bled into one another, staining my fingers a deep, permanent red.

"Thanks" he said there was pain in his sound.

​“When we get inside,” I murmured, my voice shaking despite my desperate efforts to appear brave and unbothered, “you need to wash that wound with cold water before you even think of a proper bandage.”

​Julian let out a dry, pained chuckle, the sound vibrating against his chest. Even half-bleeding to death, his arrogance remained entirely intact. He leaned his back against the rough bark of an old oak, looking down at my hands on his arm.

​“Cold water?” he asked, a faint, amused smirk playing on his pale lips. “Are you a doctor, Elara? Usually, people go straight for the medicine.”

​“The cold water clears the heat of the trauma,” I replied sharply, pulling the knot firm with a sharp tug that made his jaw tighten. I didn't want him to see how much his pain was affecting me. “My mother always said... medicine can’t heal what is still burning inside.”

​The words left my mouth before I could stop them, carrying a weight that immediately shifted the air between us.

​Julian looked at me intensely. The amusement vanished from his features, replaced by a dark, searching gaze that seemed to pierce right through the walls I had built. His dark eyes locked onto mine, looking for the girl behind the dagger

.

​“And did that cruel mother of yours teach you all these folk remedies?” he asked softly, his voice dropping to a low, heavy vibration. “The one who signs cheques for assassins?”

​I stopped walking. My hands froze against his chest, the entire forest suddenly feeling ten degrees colder. The mention of my step mother felt like a physical blow to my ribs.

​“No,” I whispered, the word catching in my throat as a sudden wave of grief threatened to drown me. “Not her. My real mother. Before she... before everything changed.”

​The silence that followed was heavy, suffocatingly deep. Julian didn't push further. For a man who dealt in secrets and violence, he knew exactly when to stop. He didn't weaponize my grief, nor did he offer hollow words of comfort.

​Instead, he looked away, his gaze falling on a wild, tangled bush growing against the stone wall of his estate's perimeter. He reached out with his uninjured hand, his long fingers moving with a surprising gentleness as he plucked a single, late-blooming pink rose from the thorns.

​He turned back to me and held it out. The delicate, soft petals were a jarring, beautiful contrast against his blood-stained palm.

​"The color suits you," he murmured, his voice incredibly low, brushing against my ears like the night breeze. He stepped closer, until the scent of rain, expensive tobacco, and the metallic tang of his blood completely surrounded me. "It matches the fire in your cheeks when you're angry

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