HER
Amber and Grace flit around, at a loss for what to do, and Elliot just stands, staring at the blood, turning paler by the second.
Mrs. Kozlov is talking fast in Slovakranian, gesturing wildly at me with a cloth.
I only feel a distant tingle in my hands, my body not quite returning to normal function yet. The red catches my eye, and I stare, stricken, unable to move.
I don't notice him until his warm, steady presence is at my back. Aleksi's large palm gently slides down my arm to my bloody hand, taking the cloth from Mrs. Kozlov and pressing it into my palm firmly—staunching the bleeding.
I look up at him, craning my head. Everything narrows to him. He looks so relaxed, so steady. His eyes meet mine and he smiles gently.
"Let's get you fixed up."
I barely hear him wave away everyone's worries as he guides me out of the chaos and into the servants' hall. He somehow gets everyone to leave and settles me gently by the fire.
Sitting across from me, he continues to put pressure on my cut, the picture of ease. My vision and hearing seem reluctant to function properly, and when they return, they lock in on Aleksi—hungry for his stability.
I'm so focused on him, I don't even know who it is who brings in the basin of water and the tools to fix my hand. I just know he's unwrapping it, seeming entirely unphased by the angry red gash as he gently starts to clean it.
His movements are so methodical; they slowly bring me back to myself.
Everything seems slightly too loud, too bright, as if I've just been pulled from a deep sleep. A low ache has started in my brain, remnants of my trance.
I know exactly when full feeling to my limbs return, because a sharp pain shoots up through my arm from where Aleksi carefully dabs alcohol on my wound.
I hiss and jerk my hand back, trying to clench it.
He keeps a firm grip, not letting me escape, though stopping his ministrations for a moment.
"It's alright. I know it hurts—but if you close your fist you'll do more harm than good. Just relax…" He gently works the tension from my hand, smiling when it's once again flat and open. "There you go."
His low voice is like a balm for the pain in my body. It loosens my muscles and draws a relieved sigh from my mouth.
Once he continues, it becomes a cycle of my wincing and tensing, and him slowly coaxing the tightness from my muscles. I watch him work, his head bowed in concentration.
Elbows braced on his knees, his sleeves pushed up, he's gilded by the firelight; it flickers over the planes of his face. As he works, stray pieces of brown hair fall forward, making him look even more rugged.
I'm suddenly struck by the unfairness of it—how composed he is, how handsome. It irks me. A wild, irrational annoyance bubbles up in me, and I frown.
Unfortunately, just then his eyes flick up to mine. He smiles apologetically.
"I'm sorry if my hands are rough."
I want to smack him—damn him for being kind. His hands are rough, and warm, and—infuriatingly—perfect. Damn him.
I feel like an unruly child, pouting over things that he has no control over. And yet, this anger won't wane, and there is nowhere else to direct it.
"They're alright," I grumble indignantly.
His eyes flash up to mine and he raises an eyebrow, searching my face.
"You're pouting," he says, eyes narrowing.
"I am not," I retort childishly.
He laughs, as if pleasantly surprised.
"You are!"
"Stop laughing like that, or I'll give you a smack." I try to sound cross, but this just makes him laugh louder. I try to yank my hand away, but his grip is too firm. In a last-ditch attempt, I go to stand up, but he closes his knees around mine—trapping me.
Heat has worked its way onto my face, and I struggle uselessly.
"Limonskiy, stop—you're going to hurt yourself." He tries to sound serious, but his poorly contained laughter ruins the effect.
"Damn you, Krasivak." I snap at him. I want to get a rise out of him, I want him to be the annoying, rough Aleksi I'm used to.
But to my dismay, he only looks at me with a soft, amused look, growing quiet.
"Okay, I'll stop laughing. Just stay still so I can finish this."
This only makes me struggle harder. I want to escape this gentle, soft Aleksi before I do something I regret.
"Laura." I freeze. My heart hammers. "Please."
His face is all openness. I have no defense against this strange Aleksi, so I sit, unmoving, while he wraps my hand with such delicacy it should be illegal. Every small touch sends sparks so strong up my arm I nearly jolt—and they aren't from pain.
"You know, you run away a lot," he says casually, not meeting my eyes. I'm glad for that small mercy because if he was looking at me, he'd see exactly how much I would like to run away right now.
"I don't know what you mean," I try to make my voice sound casual, steady, but instead it comes out breathy and weak. I bite back a groan.
"Do I…" he meets my eyes, looking almost… shy? Lord save me. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"
The question is so vulnerable—so boyish—from this mountain of a man. I still feel panicky, desperate to escape, but my need to reassure him takes over, and my voice comes out mercifully smooth:
"No, you don't."
He dips his head again, lower this time. It might be the firelight but I could swear the tips of his ears are pink.
"Good, I'm… glad."
I scream internally. We sit in silence the rest of the time he bandages my hand—an eternity.
And when he finally, reluctantly, lets me go, I prove him right and run away like I've never run before.