Veiled Eyes

Chapter 6

Modesty – noun: behavior, manner, or appearance intended to avoid impropriety or indecency.

“You’re wasting my time,” he said, already reaching for the fabric again. “Either let me do this, or bleed out. Your choice means nothing to me.” The cold in his voice cut deeper than the wound itself.

He was right. I needed to get over myself. This wasn’t the Haven, and its modesty laws meant nothing here. But the conditioning was hard to shake. The Haven’s rules had dictated every detail of my life, even the smallest brush of skin against skin. Modesty wasn’t a suggestion—it was enforced with death or exile. I’d grown up terrified of even the smallest infraction, wrapped in a world where bodies were hidden, controlled, and regulated.

I drew in a few steadying breaths and nodded, unable to form words. I’d always been outspoken, sure of myself—but this… this was different. Admitting this truth out loud felt like peeling back armor I’d worn my whole life. He was the only person outside my family who had ever seen this much of me, the only one who had touched me without layers of rules between us. The thought left me silent, my throat tight with an unfamiliar shyness.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the pain in my leg distant compared to the turmoil twisting in my chest.

His hands stilled on my leg. “What is it?” His voice had lost none of its edge, but it was quieter now—more measured than soft.

“This,” I said, my voice unsteady as I gestured toward my exposed thigh, “is the most skin anyone has ever seen.”

The words slipped out like a secret I hadn’t meant to give, yet the moment they left my mouth, a strange sense of release followed—like cracking open a window after years of suffocating air.

“Luckily you aren’t staying,” he said suddenly, and my eyes snapped open. “It’s not like anyone would know about this.”

His gaze stayed locked on my leg, tracking the slow seep of blood with clinical precision. The concern was there—in the way his eyes lingered, in the steadiness of his hands—but the rest of him was wound tight, like a coiled spring.

It struck me then—this wasn’t indifference. This was armor. A façade he’d built to keep the world at arm’s length. He wanted to be cold. To appear untouchable. But beneath that hardened shell, something human still flickered.

And he was afraid of it. Afraid to care.

For the briefest moment, his thumb brushed lightly against my skin—not part of his work, not necessary at all. A fleeting touch, almost absentminded, before he caught himself and pulled back as though burned. His jaw clenched, his shoulders squaring, the mask sliding firmly back into place.

Taking a deep breath, I slid the waistband of my pants down, my fingers snagging on the fabric. I managed to work them most of the way before my trembling hands faltered. Kael, sensing my hesitation, reached out and pulled them the rest of the way down in one smooth motion.

Relief flooded through me as I remembered the spandex shorts beneath my uniform pants. It wasn’t much, but it gave me a sliver of modesty—a thin barrier against the raw exposure prickling at the edges of my nerves.

Once my legs were bare, Kael reached for the supplies he’d set aside: a small jar of salve, a roll of gauze, and a bottle I hadn’t noticed before of what looked like rubbing alcohol. The harsh scent stung my nose even before he uncapped it.

His eyes were serious, his movements efficient, every gesture deliberate. The clinical precision of his touch, the quiet steadiness in his demeanor, eased the frantic pounding of my heart—if only a little.

He uncapped the bottle, and the sharp, medicinal scent hit me like a slap, stinging my nose and making my eyes water before a single drop touched my skin.

“Hold still,” he said, his tone flat, though his eyes flicked briefly to mine, as if gauging how much I could take.

The first splash hit, and fire tore through my leg. I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers twisting into the furs beneath me. The burn was immediate, blooming outward until it seemed to consume my entire thigh.

Kael’s hand was steady as he worked, but I saw it—just for an instant—the faint crease between his brows, the smallest tightening around his mouth. Concern, quickly smothered. He refocused on the wound, pouring more alcohol with the same deliberate care, as though my flinch hadn’t registered.

I bit down on a whimper, my chest tight, the sting forcing tears to the corners of my eyes. He didn’t comment on them, didn’t slow. When he finally set the bottle aside, his hand lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary before reaching for the salve.

Kael dipped two fingers into the jar, scooping out a thick smear of salve. The scent was sharp and herbal, cutting through the lingering bite of the alcohol.

“This will help,” he said, his tone still cool, though quieter now.

The first touch was a shock of contrast—cool against the searing heat of the wound. I exhaled shakily, the tightness in my chest easing just a fraction as the burn began to ebb. His movements were slow, precise, working the salve gently over the torn flesh without pressing too hard.

I kept my eyes on his face, searching for any flicker of expression. His features were as guarded as ever, but every so often, his gaze darted briefly to mine, as if checking my reaction. The contact was fleeting, almost unintentional, yet it sent an unsteady ripple through me.

When he finished, his hand lingered a moment too long, his fingertips ghosting the edge of the wound before he reached for the gauze. It was gone in a heartbeat, the cold mask settling back over him as though that extra second had never happened.

He unwound the roll of gauze with practiced ease, the soft hiss of fabric against fabric filling the den. Without a word, he began wrapping my thigh, each turn snug and deliberate. His hands were steady, impersonal, as though I were just another task to complete before moving on.

The pressure built with each layer until it was almost too tight, but I didn’t complain. It felt secure—anchoring me in a way I didn’t want to admit.

When he tied off the bandage, he sat back on his heels and regarded his work with the detachment of someone checking a knot. “That’ll hold for now,” he said. His gaze flicked to mine, unreadable.

Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he added, “If you can’t keep up, it won’t matter. The dark will take you before infection does.” The words landed like ice in my stomach, erasing the small comfort his care had given.

My first instinct was to snap back, to tell him exactly where he could shove his warning. The words formed on my tongue, hot and sharp. But they stalled there, caught between pride and the gnawing truth in his voice.

If I pushed him, if I chipped away at that icy patience he barely seemed to have, he might decide I wasn’t worth the trouble. And then… the dark really would take me.

So I swallowed the retort, my jaw tight, my gaze dropping to the bandage instead. “Fine,” I said, my voice low but steady.

Kael didn’t respond. He simply rose to his feet, the movement fluid and deliberate, and reached for one of the packs against the wall. Whatever I’d chosen in that moment—silence, submission, survival—it hadn’t changed him. He was still a man made of walls, and I was still trapped behind them.

“These should fit well enough,” he said, his voice gruff. A bundle of clothes—a pair of pants and a shirt—landed in my lap before he turned his back, granting me the barest semblance of privacy.

I stripped off my soaked vest and shirt, the fabric hitting the floor with a wet, heavy thud. I hesitated, my fingers lingering at the hem of my sports bra, before deciding to leave it on. It clung damp and uncomfortable to my skin, but it was better than nothing. The Haven’s rules on modesty were carved deep, and shaking them off wasn’t something I could do in a single breath.

I tugged the dry shirt over my head. The fabric was soft, worn thin in places, and it smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something subtly floral—familiar in a way I couldn’t place. The shirt hung loose on me, but it was warm, comforting.

Who had worn these before me? And why did the thought of that make my chest tighten?

I reached for the pants, shaking them out before stepping into them. They were a little long, the fabric pooling at my ankles, but the fit around my hips and waist was surprisingly close—as if they’d been chosen on purpose.

As I fastened them, I glanced at Kael. He still stood with his back to me, his posture rigid, arms loosely crossed. But in the faint reflection of light on the cave wall, I caught the smallest shift of his head, just enough to suggest he’d stolen a glance.

The moment I met his profile, his head turned fully away again, his stillness returning as though nothing had happened.

I tugged the waistband higher, pretending not to notice, though the awareness of it lingered like static on my skin.