Kaein's POV
He moved so close to me, closer than any stranger had ever gotten to me in years.
I cut him off with the blade. Not a show, not a joke. I stood and drew the sword from where it leaned against my shoulder, the point aimed straight at his chest. Close enough that he could see the steel's edge. Close enough that if he moved wrong, I'd end it. "Don't speak," I said. "Not until I know what you are."
He blinked, and the corner of his mouth twitched as if he found my bluntness amusing. "You're wound…"
"Shut up," I snapped. "You're too pretty to be trusted. That's what I said."
He laughed, the sound was so soft and pleasing and I hated the sound because it made him human. He didn't flinch. He watched me with those calm, dark eyes and for a moment something in me wanted to lower the blade because his face was ridiculous too smooth, too neat, like someone carved him out of good luck. That thought made me angry at myself. Pretty men didn't belong where I came from; pretty men didn't survive long in this world. Pretty men were either cursed or liars.
"You think I'm a demon because I'm pretty?" he asked. He didn't sound offended. He sounded curious.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe you are. Maybe you're the kind that smiles and eats boys who trust him. Maybe you're the kind that walks into huts and turns the whole village to ash by morning." I kept the steel steady. If I hadn't learned to fight without thinking, I wouldn't be alive. If I acted on instinct, I'd kill anyone who made a wrong move.
He didn't move. He lifted both hands slowly, palms empty, showing he meant no attack. "I won't hurt you," he said, voice even. "I helped you back here."
"You helped me back here to kill me in my sleep," I said. The accusation sounded dull even to my own ears, but I couldn't make it softer. Not for him.
He inhaled, and his face changed for a blink..softened, unpleasantly human and then something gave. He flinched like he'd been hit, a small sound escaping him, and he took a step back. For a second I thought he might cry.
I don't know why I stepped back. Maybe it was common sense; maybe it was because even in the middle of hatred, you don't cut down someone who cries. Maybe, more honestly, I stepped back because my chest tightened when I looked at him full-on and he looked like the sort of person who didn't belong in a place like this…which meant he probably didn't belong anywhere, which meant he was dangerous in a different way. He was too pretty to be demon or slayer; he blurred the lines and I hate blurs.
"You. " he started, hand to his throat like something had scraped him. "My name is Renjiro." He said it slowly, as if saying it made it more true. "Renjiro Takeda."
Words are small things and names are dangerous. Saying one out loud can make a person feel real. I kept the blade leveled because names and hands had killed me before. "Renjiro," I repeated. I didn't say anything else. I wanted him to prove himself. Or fail. Either one was fine.
He watched me, then reached forward without asking and grabbed the edge of my wet, torn shirt. The motion was casual,no hesitation. "Let me see the wound," he said. "I can help."
I snatched away, more reflex than thought. "I don't need your help." I heard the whine in my voice. "I can handle my own."
He didn't argue. He just looked at me, steady, and tried again. This time his fingers brushed my shoulder as he worked the fabric loose, and the contact was barely a touch, but it was enough. My muscles jumped. I felt the breath leave my chest. I realized I was suddenly very aware of every inch of him.
I shoved his hand away with more force than I meant. He stumbled back, hands up as if to defend himself, and in the movement his foot caught the low step of the threshold and he fell. And I could see him look at his hand and the low "ouch.." he muttered and the way his lips moved. All I could do was roll my eyes and turn my head.
I told myself I didn't care. I turned my head so he couldn't see that my hand was shaking. I tightened my fingers on the hilt and tried to breathe like a man who belonged to the sword. I didn't move to help him. That would've been wrong. I would not be the kind of man who reached out because someone pretty fell.
He stayed where he was, on the floor, one hand pressed to his hip. The other hand reached up, awkward, and he half-smiled, an attempt to swallow pain and pretend it wasn't there. "I'm fine," he said, voice thin. "Don't worry about me."
My jaw clenched. Of course he said that. Pity is bait. Saying you're fine is the first step toward trusting someone who will ask for favors later. I scowled and turned away, looking at the sliding paper door.
He stood slowly, rubbing the place where he'd hit. He moved with that same... precise ease. For a second I thought I'd rather kick him than smile at him. Instead I let my breath out in a rough sound and said nothing. Let him make the next move.
Instead Renjiro came closer again, and his voice dropped into that same calm, low tone. "I really can help," he said.
I watched his hands. They were steady now, but when he set his palms to the fabric at my shoulder there was a small wince as he pulled. He'd hurt himself trying to avoid hurting me. Ridiculous. Irritating. Ridiculously endearing in the worst way. I forced myself to stare at his hands and not at his face.
"No." The word was flat. I tried to make it final. "I don't need your fucking help." and I let my siren eyes settle as I stared at him. He was built prettier than every pretty girl I'd ever seen, I just can't explain.
He paused, then, with an almost bored shrug, started removing his own outer robe. "Then I won't force you," he said. "But if you refuse, I'll at least make you comfortable." He set his robe aside with careful movements, and I watched the line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck. I didn't want to be watching.
He reached for the wet shirt again. "Just enough to see the wound," he said. "If you still don't want me close, I'll step back." and then he put it around me and gave me a little piece of cloth that was with him and I us
ed to cover the wound and he just walked away.