Page 38 of Lamb

“Okay, okay, I get it.” I tugged at my ankle, but his grip refused to budge. “I should not have broken out of my room, okay? I will go back just—”

Another.

“Fine!” I snapped. “I should not have drank your vod—”

Another.

“Lamb!”

The repetitive pain ceased.

I stilled as a mix of caution and relief made a terrible concoction inside of me.

Lamb had not moved a muscle, and I sat on the edge of anticipation, waiting for punishment or release. It took a few moments, but soon enough, the black silk shifted, and Lamb began moving once more.

I had not been released, however.

“You got cut.”

“What?” I frowned, missing his words.

A soft sigh weighed on his shoulders. “Your feet got cut on the broken glass,” Lamb repeated with practised patience. “I need to bandage it.”

“Oh,” I said, because what else could I?

Silence descended as I mentally focused on his actions. The softness of the bandage pressed against the raw underneath of my foot. Small, irritated nips tingled across my skin, but compared to whatever he was doing before—disinfecting, perhaps?—there was not much to complain about.

Feeling only the briefest of touches, he wound the material over and around my foot and ankle. His movements were efficient, and though it had felt a yearlong with each tingling graze of his fingers, it had only taken him a minute or so to have completed my first aid.

With care, he lifted my foot, allowing himself to slip from the couch, and set it down on a cushion before walking past me.

Woodsy cedar washed over me as he passed so close to me that I could have grabbed him if I wanted to. Part of me did. Part of me was rapidly questioning the bizarre behaviour. Part of me wanted to apologize for what I had done, despite being thekidnapped victim. Part of me wanted to stop him just because I could. Because I knew he would stop. Knew he would look at me.

His gaze had unsettled me for a long time, and I had slowly begun to learn why.

Lamb looked atme.

My formative years had been spent living as a ghost, and even though many seasons had passed, I had evolved no further than a shadow, moving from one place to the next, never finding solid standing anywhere.

For Lamb, though, no light shone through me. I had cause and effect on the things I touched. There was evidence of where I had been. I left footsteps on this man who had no reason to treat me as anything other than dust passing in an autumn breeze.

“It scares me,” I whispered, the words slipping out of my mouth. I stared into the white void of the room, the bright light seeping into the room, curtains stagnant and still.

I heard Lamb’s feet pause, his steps freezing just past my head, just out of sight. If I focused, I would see his lingering form in the corner of my eye, but I did not. I could not.

“What does?” Lamb’s voice was soft and neutral.

“The way you look at me.”

“And how …?” Lamb paused. “How do I look at you?”

“Like I exist.” My gaze shifted to my foot, the phantom touch of his fingers still roaming over my skin.

I waited, wondering what his response would be, mind wandering far and wide.

Lamb’s footsteps continued, not a single word spoken as his steps disappeared behind me. I tipped my head back, closing my eyes as a breath escaped my chest, silence descending like a veil over my mind for a small, peaceful moment.

“Are you hungry?”

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