Chapter 82 Tender Mercies
The night air was cool against her skin.
Veyra stood on the balcony, her hands resting on the stone railing, her face tilted toward the sky. The stars were scattered across the darkness like tiny pinpricks of light. The garden below was quiet. The city hummed in the distance.
She took a deep breath. The air smelled like jasmine and damp earth.
Her heart was still pounding from the armory. From Dorian’s words. From the way he had looked at her. But the cool breeze was helping. She could feel her cheeks cooling. Her pulse slowing.
She thought about everything that had happened today. The lunch with Dr. Harrison. The confrontation with Xander Hale. The negotiation with the million and Dorian’s approval of her university plans.
Her heart swelled with renewed determination.
She would study medicine. She would build her business. She would become strong. She would never be the helpless woman she had been with Caspian.
She clenched her fists on the railing. The pain in her raw palms reminded her that she was alive. That she was fighting. That she was winning.
She smiled into the darkness.
A knock came at the door behind her.
Veyra turned. She walked back into the bedroom. The door was still open. Leon Wei stood in the hallway, holding a white box with a red cross on the front.
"Mrs. Thorne," he said. "Mr. Thorne asked me to deliver this."
Veyra blinked. "What is it?"
"A first-aid kit. He said your hands need attention." Leon held out the box. "He also said you are not to argue."
Veyra took the kit. It was heavier than she expected. She looked at Leon. His face was neutral, but his eyes were curious.
"Thank you," she said.
Leon nodded. He turned and walked away.
Veyra closed the door. She carried the kit to the bed and sat down. She opened the lid.
Inside was everything she could possibly need. Antiseptic wipes. Gauze. Medical tape. Scissors. Tweezers. Burn cream. Pain relievers. And a box of adhesive bandages covered in cartoon characters.
Her throat tightened.
Dorian had thought of everything. He had not just sent a generic kit. He had sent one with Lily’s favorite bandages. The ones with the smiling animals. The ones that would make a child smile.
She picked up the box of bandages. Her fingers traced the edge.
He was thoughtful. Detail-oriented. He remembered things. Small things. Important things.
She felt deeply touched.
She set the box of bandages aside. She assumed they were included specifically for Lily. For when the little girl scraped her knee or bumped her elbow. For the inevitable minor injuries of childhood.
It was a kind gesture. A fatherly gesture which made her smiled.
Then she looked at her hands. The raw, red skin, the burst blisters and the tiny cuts.
She needed to clean them. But the thought of the antiseptic made her wince.
She set the kit on the nightstand. She would deal with it in a moment. She needed to gather her courage.
The bathroom door opened.
Dorian stepped out. He was wearing a white bathrobe. His hair was damp from the shower. His skin was flushed. His gray eyes found her immediately.
"You haven’t treated your hands," he said.
Veyra looked down. "I was about to."
"You were not. You were sitting there, staring at the kit, avoiding it."
She opened her mouth to argue. He was right. She closed her mouth.
Dorian walked to the nightstand. He picked up the first-aid kit. He carried it to the small table near the window. He opened it. He pulled out the antiseptic wipes and the iodine.
"The wound needs disinfecting," he said. "If you don’t clean it properly, it will become infected."
"I know."
"Then why haven’t you done it?"
Veyra looked at her hands. "Because it’s going to hurt."
Dorian looked at her. His expression was unreadable.
"Sit down," he said.
Veyra sat on the edge of the bed.
Dorian pulled a chair close to her. He sat down. He picked up a cotton swab and the iodine bottle. He uncapped the bottle. He poured a small amount of iodine onto the swab.
The smell was sharp. Medicinal.
"Give me your hand," he said.
Veyra hesitated. Then she extended her left hand. Her palm was raw. The skin was red and cracked.
Dorian took her hand. His fingers were warm. His touch was gentle.
He pressed the iodine-soaked swab to her palm.
Veyra hissed. The pain was sharp. Burning. She tried to pull her hand back.
Dorian held firm. "Do not move."
"It hurts."
"I know. But it must be done."
He continued. Slow. Deliberate. He cleaned every inch of the wound. The swab turned pink. Then red. He discarded it. He picked up a fresh one. He poured more iodine.
Veyra bit her lip. Her eyes watered. But she did not pull away again.
Dorian worked in silence.
He cleaned her left palm thoroughly. Then he picked up a roll of gauze. He wrapped it around her hand. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just right.
He taped the end.
"Your left hand is done," he said. "Now the right."
Veyra looked at her right palm. It was worse than the left. The blisters were larger. Some had burst open. The skin was raw and weeping.
She held it out.
Dorian took her right hand. His fingers were still warm. Still gentle.
He picked up a fresh swab. He poured iodine. He pressed it to her palm.
Veyra gasped. The pain was worse. Much worse.
She clenched her jaw. Her eyes squeezed shut.
Dorian continued. He did not stop. He did not hurry.
The pain was unbearable.
Veyra’s body tensed. Her free hand gripped the bedspread. Her teeth ground together.
Then she could not take it anymore.
She lunged forward. Her mouth opened. Her teeth sank into Dorian’s arm.
His forearm. Just below the elbow.
She bit down. Hard.
Dorian did not react. He did not flinch. He did not even pull away.
He continued cleaning her palm. His hand was steady. His breathing was calm.
Veyra tasted skin and salt and something else. She held on. The pain in her hand was still sharp. The biting helped. It gave her something else to focus on. Seconds passed. Maybe a minute.
The pain in her palm began to fade. The iodine was doing its work and she released his arm.
Dorian finished wrapping her right hand. He taped the end. He set down the gauze.
He looked at his arm. There were teeth marks. Deep. Red. A thin line of blood welled up where her teeth had broken the skin.
Veyra stared at the marks. Her mouth fell open.
"I’m so sorry," she said. "I didn’t mean to—I couldn’t help—the pain was—"
Dorian said nothing.
She looked at his face. His expression was unreadable. But his eyes were soft.
"I bit you," she said. "I really bit you."
"You did."
"Why didn’t you stop me?"
"You needed to. The pain was severe. Biting gave you an outlet." He picked up a clean cloth. He wiped the blood from his arm. "It is not the first time I have been bitten."
Veyra’s cheeks burned. "I’m really sorry."
Dorian stood up. He walked toward the walk-in closet.
"I am going to change," he said.
He disappeared inside.
Veyra sat on the bed, staring at her bandaged hands.
She had bitten him. Hard. She had left marks.
She touched her own arm, imagining the pain. She winced.
He had not flinched. He had not yelled. He had not pulled away.
He had just... continued.
She looked at the first-aid kit. At the used swabs. At the iodine bottle.
He had taken care of her. Gently. Patiently. Even when she bit him and she felt a rush of gratitude.
Inside the walk-in closet, Dorian stood in front of the mirror.
He had taken off his bathrobe. He was wearing only his trousers. His chest was bare.
He looked at his arm. The bite marks were clearly visible. Red crescents. Some already turning purple.
He touched them. They were tender.
He remembered the feel of her teeth on his skin. The way she had held on and the way she had released it.
He gave a faint chuckle.
No one had bitten him in years. Not since he was a child. Not since his mother.
He pulled a clean shirt from the hanger. He put it on. The fabric brushed against the bite marks. He did not wince.
He walked out of the closet.
The bedroom was quiet.
The lights were dim. The first-aid kit was closed. The used swabs were in the trash.
And Veyra was asleep.
She was lying on the bed, still fully dressed, her bandaged hands resting on her stomach. Her face was peaceful. Her breathing was slow and even.
Dorian stood in the doorway. He looked at her. At the rise and fall of her chest. At the way her hair fanned across the pillow.
She had fallen asleep waiting for him.
He gave a wry smile.
"She’s asleep," he murmured to himself.
He walked to the closet. He pulled out a blanket and a pillow. He walked to the sofa. He lay down.
The sofa was too short for his frame. His feet hung over the edge but he did not complain instead he closed his eyes and fell asleep