Page 3 of The Demon's Discovery
“Oh! Pardon me,” I apologized, the heat of a blush warming my cheeks.
“The fault is mine,” he said graciously.
I blinked trying to clear my vision. The man was fuzzy around the edges almost, and several steps back from me, but I hadn’t seen him take a single one.
“Honestly, you’ve done me a favor, that wine is atrocious. I was looking for a houseplant or something to dump it into, but I’m afraid you’re wearing it instead.” His hand appeared in my vision, holding a pristine white handkerchief. “Are you alright?” Warm fingers curled under my chin and lifted my face. I inhaled through my nose, panic surging through my veins. My skin tingled at his gentle touch.
“Fine, thank you.” I met his golden eyes and tried to breathe through the blurred sensation I got in my head as he lowered the satiny fabric to my cheek and swiped away drops of wine.
“Here, I’ll just…” His hand was extended as though he were going to attempt to wipe the stain from my shirt, but he stilled, pulling it back before touching me as the wetness mostly covered my chest. The cloth dangled there, the offer for me to take it open. “Perhaps you should instead?”
Face hot, I accepted it, blotting lightly at the damp fabric, but it was already too late. My shirt was cheap beige linen, and he had been drinking one of the dark-red wines Lara favored.
“Thanks anyway,” I said, handing it back. “Sorry for staining your kerchief.” I half-turned to go, but he was undeterred.
He waved a hand. “Keep it, with my compliments.”
I twisted the square between my fingers, unsure how to proceed, as emotions furiously bounced around under my skin. Despite my many years of practice, I couldn’t tear my eyes from his face and put them back to the floor where they belonged. Hewas looking right at me. My breath stalled in my throat, but it wasn’t out of fear.
This man wasbeautiful.
Taller than me by several inches, he held himself with the poise and confidence of a noble. He had nearly white hair that flowed loose down to his mid back and a playful smirk on his lush mouth. His light-gold eyes traveled one end of me to the other in assessment. I flushed hotly all over.
“Are you alright? I’m afraid I may have ruined your shirt, but I’m much more concerned about your arm by the way you were holding it.”
“Oh, no, really, I’m fine. My shoulder… that’s not… Are you hurt?”
He chuckled at my question, but his eyes widened as he saw I was serious. “No, my lady. I’m quite well.” His head tilted to the side, and he took all of me in once again. His hand rose to his chest, fingertips pressing into one of the gaps between buttons in his vest, the space over his heart. The intensity of his stare brought every last one of my nerves to attention. If I blushed any harder, I might burst into flames. “I’m sorry, have we met?” he asked quietly, voice tripping along my spine like a dark echo.
It might have been a come-on, but he truly didn’t seem the type to proposition random women in empty hallways. I pressed my fingernails into my palm to quell the unusual sensation tingling under my skin. “Doubtful, my lord.” Impossible, actually, but that felt overly dramatic to say out loud. My heart skipped a beat with the reality that I was in full view of and talking to a guest. The urgency to escape crushed down on me more by the second.
“Shall we remedy that?” He dipped into a formal bow, complete with hand flourish. “Vassago Feland, at your service.”
“I’m Greta,” I replied, looking around for a quick exit from this situation. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Feland.”
“The honor is most assuredly mine. Please, call me Vassago. I’m sorry again about my clumsiness.” In one smooth gesture, he slid his fingers around mine and brought my knuckles to his mouth. My skin tingled everywhere his brushed mine, particularly his lips. My heart thudded so hard behind my ribs I worried I might pass out.
“Oh. I’m sure that was my fault,” I repeated, thoughts harder and harder to organize the longer he touched me. “I?—”
He frowned, turning my hand over. The shiny patches of pink skin caught the light in a particularly unflattering way. “Are you injured?”
I resisted the urge to tug my fingers back and forced a weak smile. “I work in the kitchen sometimes. Burns are unavoidable.”
Those golden eyes raised from my hand to my face and my cheeks warmed. How I was certain he could see the lie was a mystery, but the way he scanned me told me he didn’t believe my excuse.
He traced a days-old burn from the edge of an iron pan running across three of my knuckles. “This one perhaps came from cooking, but these”—he traced the small round marks from the acid—“are in quite an unusual pattern for a kitchen burn. And they’re starting to blister.” He tsked with his tongue, concern on his face. “How are you treating it?”
I swallowed, my throat impossibly dry. I’d informed him I was staff, and that was his response? At his lingering stare, I realized he was not going to let either my hand or his question go until he got a satisfactory answer.
“An ointment. It will be fine, I’m sure. I always heal, with time.”
“Mm.” He made a thoughtful noise as he released my fingers, and I clasped my hands together at my front so I wouldn’t bury them in my pockets or tuck them behind my back. “Chemicalburns can be quite nasty. That handkerchief is silk. When you apply the ointment again, wrap that over the top, it may help some. Don’t worry yourself if it stains.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I twisted the cloth again, threading it through my first and second fingers.
“I trust you’re being careful with your lovely eyes?”
I blinked at him, the polite scolding somehow endearing instead of insulting. It was nice to have someone concerned about me for a change.
