Chapter 10
1558 Words
When she entered, he was already seated, his sleeve rolled up, waiting. The morning light caught the curve of his jaw, the lean strength in his forearm, and for a fraction of a moment, Genevieve had to steady herself.
“You’re late,” Alfred said, though his tone was more curious than reprimanding.
“There were others who needed stitching first,” she replied evenly, setting down her satchel.
He raised a brow, and the faintest curve of a smile touched his lips. “And now I am last?”
“Only because you’re the loudest when wounded,” she said, pulling her gloves on, forcing her eyes to the tools before her instead of the sharp angles of his face.
Alfred let out a low, quiet laugh that made her pulse quicken. “So the healer does have humor after all.”
“Not today,” she murmured, dipping a cloth into clean water. “Hold still, General.”
He obeyed, though the way his eyes lingered on her, taking in the tilt of her shoulders, the soft curve of her wrist, made his stomach tighten.
“You treat every patient with such silence, healer?” he asked, leaning just a fraction closer as she wrapped the bandage around his arm.
His voice was low, teasing, yet edged with something warmer, more dangerous. “Or am I the only one who earns your quiet wrath?”
Genevieve did not look up, her lips pressed together, though the hint of a bite betrayed the tension she felt. “If silence heals faster, General, then I’m doing you a favor.”
He tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So it is wrath, then.”
“It’s focus,” she said, tightening the bandage just enough to make him flinch. Her lips brushed together again as she worked, an unconscious habit when her thoughts ran too close to him.
“Hold still, or it will take longer.”
Alfred’s gaze softened, tracing the gentle line of her jaw, the way her hair fell across her temple, the subtle scent of herbs clinging to her. Every detail struck him like a quiet revelation.
“If the gods were women, surely you would be one worth worshiping,” he murmured, low and almost breathless.
Genevieve’s heart stuttered. She dared a glance at him, and his eyes were dark with admiration, though he said nothing more.
She forced herself to look back at his arm, pressing her lips together to hide the flutter of heat in her chest.
“You seem determined to make this hurt,” he said, his tone half-joking, half-serious, the soft rise and fall of his chest hypnotic.
“I seem determined to make it heal,” she replied, finally meeting his gaze.
The world narrowed to him, to the warmth of his arm beneath her fingers, and to the dangerous pull she felt in his eyes.
He smiled then, a slow, knowing curve. “My father… he was the last to treat me with such care before you. Tender. Precise. Watching every detail, afraid of missing even the smallest thing. And now… here you are.”
His words were a confession, soft, intoxicating, and intimate.
Genevieve’s pulse raced. She bit her lip, tasting her own nervousness, and he noticed.
The way her fingers trembled, the subtle tilt of her head, the way her eyes avoided his yet glimmered with something unspoken. Every small detail burned into his memory.
She finished, stepping back and gathering her tools, but the space between them felt charged, alive.
“You’ll change the dressing by tomorrow,” she said quietly. “And keep it dry.”
Alfred let his gaze linger on her, his voice low and husky. “I will hold it as if I am protecting something sacred… just as I hold you in my memory now.”
Genevieve swallowed, her chest tightening, and for a moment, the world outside the shed ceased to exist.
She turned sharply. “Why are you here honestly?”
“To meet you. It is fated in the skies, don't you think?”
At that, she rolled her eyes and stood up putting space between herself and this impossible man.
Alfred rose slowly, the movement measured, but his presence filled the small space around her. He stepped closer, careful but deliberate, the faint scent of earth and sweat and something uniquely him filling her senses.
“I would rather you linger here,” he said quietly. “It is better than watching you rush past, unseen.”
Her heart hammered. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle strength in the way he stood, and the danger in the way his gaze traced her from head to toe.
She wanted to retreat, to escape the pull he had on her, but her body betrayed her, inching just slightly closer in hesitation.
“You are very precise,” Alfred continued, his voice dropping, husky, a tremor of something unspoken threading through each word.
“Every motion you make, every gesture… it stays in my mind long after you leave. You do not know the power you hold.”
Genevieve’s throat went dry. She pressed her lips together, her pulse thundered in her ears as she tried to pull away.
“Power is not mine,” she whispered, barely audible.
He tilted his head, a slow, teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Perhaps. But it is mine to witness, and I will not waste a moment.”
“You need not say it aloud,” he said softly, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, careful, gentle, yet charged with intent. “I know. And yet…”
His eyes darkened slightly, filled with longing and restraint. “I would hold you here, if only for a single heartbeat longer, than the world allows.”
Her knees weakened, and for a moment the weight of his gaze made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never known.
Alfred’s voice softened further, almost a whisper meant for her alone. “I have seen warriors fall, kingdoms shaken, storms break upon the land… and yet none of it compares to the storm you stir within me, silent healer.”
Genevieve’s fingers tightened around her satchel, her teeth biting the inside of her lip to keep from gasping. His words were intimate, personal, a confession wrapped in restraint.
Then, just as the tension reached a point that felt unbearably close, Alfred’s eyes softened, his hands retreating slightly, his voice lowering to a near whisper.
“Go. But know…” He let the words hang in the air, a promise and a threat all at once. “I will be thinking of you. My lady. Every moment until you return.”
She gasped and hurriedly turned and left the shed, her skirts brushing lightly against the ground.
She paused at the edge of Alfred’s shed, a glint of parchment catching her eye. A small envelope lay beside his chair, marked with a strange, intricate symbol she did not recognize.
Curiosity pricked at her, and she stooped to pick it up. “General,” she called, holding it up. “What is this? It has a seal I do not know. Is it important?”
Alfred’s eyes flicked to her, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, that,” he said, rising lazily to his feet. His presence filled the shed once more, solid and imposing. With a single, deliberate motion, he plucked the envelope from her hands.
Before she could protest, he tossed it into the fire pit. Flames licked at the paper, and a soft curl of smoke rose.
Genevieve’s eyes widened. “You—what did you just—? That could be important!”
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat, and brushed the back of his fingers lightly across her forehead. The touch was fleeting but electric, leaving a warm trail that made her knees tremble.
“You worry too much, healer,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, yet with a faint undercurrent of care. “Some things are better left unburned only in memory, not on parchment.”
Genevieve’s pulse went wild. Her lips parted, and she stammered, “I—I… I should—”
Alfred’s dark eyes held hers, unyielding, magnetic, daring her to protest. “Go. But remember what I said,” he whispered, a sly tilt of his head punctuating the command.
She swallowed, heart racing faster than she could name. “I… I’m leaving!” she managed, her voice shaking with a mix of indignation and the remnants of his touch.
Her skirts rustled as she practically ran out of the shed, weaving through the soldiers with her satchel bouncing at her side. She felt the warmth of his presence linger like a phantom even after she had put distance between them, and her cheeks burned with frustration, excitement, and a strange, helpless longing.
Focus, she thought, gripping the strap of her satchel. He is a General. A patient. A man to heal, not to…
And yet, even as she scolded herself, the memory of his fingers brushing her forehead lingered, igniting a warmth she could not ignore.
- Writer
