Page 17 of Aryn

“TMI, Ego,” Bash groans, though Xeni leans in like he’s ready for details.

“Completely unrelated,” she continues, “but do you know what squirting is?”

“I cannot,” I mutter, pushing to my feet and gesturing around the workspace. “This is clearly not going to work. It’s not like I’m going to be playing nurse, anyway. I’ll have more important things to do.”

“More important than treating wounds and, oh, I dunno, keeping people alive?” Xeni asks. “Sounds like an awful plan, but okay.”

I roll my eyes. “If you kill someone before they can cut you, then you don’t need stitches. Problem solved.”

“Yeah,” Bash says, “except the point of this mission isn’t to attack. It’s diplomatic.”

“I can be diplomatic,” I argue. “I can be downright charming when I need to be.”

The door opens and closes, stopping the retort brewing on everyone’s tongues. “Bash?” Aryn calls from the hallway. “Taryn said you were down here?”

Ego’s face lights up with pure glee. “We’re back here, Aryn!” she shouts, loud enough to make my ears ring.

He steps into the room wearing a skintight black sleeveless shirt. It molds against his chest like a second set of skin, making a damn display of his nipple rings underneath. When he spots Bash, his whole face relaxes into a smile.

“You know I’m not the best at stitches,” he says, gripping the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “I thought some practice might do me some good.”

“Not the best,” Xeni repeats with a snort. “Do I need to rehash all the times I tried to teach you in the past?”

“Hey,” Aryn says with a laugh that’s lighter than I’ve ever heard from him. “It got the job done, even if it wasn’t the prettiest.” He chuckles as he scans the room, but the sound dies when his copper eyes land on me. Those cat-like oblong pupils constrict, and his smile falters.

I turn away, clenching my jaw. Out here I already don’t have much that’s mine. Despite my insistence otherwise, I know I don’t have many fans in this village.

It’s always been that way.

A lifetime of being hard has made me unlikeable, and people are quick to point it out. Now Aryn’s in here making me feel like I’m intruding on the only friends I’ve got, and I’ll be damned if I let him ruin that.

I glance back and find him still staring. “Well, lucky you. Seat’s just opened. See you later,” I add in a mutter, tossing a look at Bash before heading for the door and pushing into the sunlight.

“Cato, wait,” Aryn calls behind me. I chew the inside of my lip, but stop and wait for him to catch up. When I turn, he’s wearing that same confused expression. “I didn’t mean to run you off. If it’s a bad time—”

“It’s not,” I cut in. “It’s fine. I was leaving anyway.”

“All the same, I didn’t intend to invade your time with your friends. I can come back later.”

I shift between my feet, so accustomed to people pushing back that I don’t know what to do with this. “I, uh… I’m not good at this medical stuff,” I say, gesturing toward the building. “And I don’t like not being good at things.”

His eyes meet mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile as he nods. “Yeah, I can understand that. Last time I had to stitch someone up, it was a botch job. Left a nasty scar, and no one wants that.”

I jerk back, fingers automatically finding the pitted skin along my neck. “What does that mean?”

His eyes go wide and his hands fly up. “Nothing! I didn’t—”

“Best get in there and practice,” I interrupt, giving him my back. “Would hate for you to ruin someone else with a scar.”

“Cato, that isn’t what I meant.”

“It’s fine,” I snap. “I was finished anyway. Go figure out how to keep from mauling anyone else.” I storm off, half expecting him to follow. Fucking nice guys never know when to quit. When no footsteps come after me, my stomach does a weird flip, undecided if it’s relieved or disappointed.

Sakane jolts upright on the couch as I slam the door open. He clutches his chest, then narrows his eyes at me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, shutting myself in the bathroom. I crank the shower on and wait for the water to warm, then lean closer to the mirror. My fingertips drift over the scars that peek through my beard, and I tilt my head to stare at the ones on my neck. When I pull my shirt off, I trace the winding patches of pink, puckered skin across my shoulder and down my arm—the ones that mimic the flames that put them there.

“Nasty scars,” I mutter, letting the hurt slip through now that there’s no one here to witness it. “Who the fuck would want this?” I strip the rest of the way and step under the water, trying to drown out the way his words keep looping in my head.