(Rose POV)
The world had become a hall of mirrors, each one reflecting a different version of myself, and all of them were cracking.
After The Slip, the air between Landy and I was a live wire. He couldn’t hold my gaze for more than a second. He’d find reasons to be on the other side of the camp, his movements jerky, his thoughts a million miles away. I saw the war in his eyes—confusion, revulsion, a dawning, terrifying suspicion that he was trying to beat back with a club.
I was fraying at the edges. The constant performance was a suit of armor that had grown too heavy. Every time I caught him looking at me with that new, searching intensity, I felt the bindings around my chest tighten, the grime on my face become a mask I was desperate to tear off.
The skirmish was almost a relief. A small, ragged group of Fred’s stragglers, lost and desperate, stumbled into our perimeter. It was a messy, chaotic fight, nothing like the disciplined attacks of the Hounds. It was in this chaos that I got sloppy.
I was disarming a man with a hunting knife, using the wrist-lock Ross had taught me, when another lunged from my blind side. I twisted away, but not fast enough. The tip of his blade caught my upper arm, slicing through the rough-spun fabric and into the flesh beneath. It wasn’t deep, but it burned like fire and bled with the dramatic fervor of a shallow cut.
I cried out, more in shock than pain, and dropped to one knee. The attacker was quickly subdued by others, but the damage was done.
Before I could even register the sight of my own blood, Landy was there. He moved through the dissipating chaos like a force of nature, his previous awkwardness burned away by immediate concern.
“Ross!” His voice was rough with an emotion I couldn’t name. He dropped to his knees beside me, his hands hovering, unsure where to touch.
“It’s nothing,” I gritted out, clutching my arm. “Just a scratch.”
“Let me see.” It wasn’t a request. His tone brooked no argument, the old Chevalier’s command returning in a flash.
He gently but firmly pried my hand away. His fingers were careful as they pushed back the torn, blood-soaked sleeve of my tunic. His touch was like a brand, and I flinched.
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His eyes met mine, a question in them. Does it hurt that much?
No. It was the intimacy. The terrifying, longed-for intimacy of his hands on my bare skin.
He tore a strip from the bottom of his own shirt, wet it with water from his canteen, and began to clean the wound. His head was bent, his focus absolute. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my arm, see the individual lashes framing his downcast eyes. The world narrowed to this small circle of pain and tenderness.
He worked in silence, his movements efficient and sure. He dabbed away the blood, his thumb brushing against my skin to clear a path. And then, he froze.
His breath hitched. A tiny, almost imperceptible sound, but to me, it was as loud as a cannon blast.
His thumb had stilled. It was resting just below the cut, on the smooth, unbroken skin of my inner arm.
Right on top of the small, strawberry-shaped birthmark I’d had since I was a baby.
I stopped breathing. Time stopped with me. I could feel the frantic, wild beat of my own heart against his thumb.
I knew that mark. I’d traced it a thousand times. Landy knew that mark. He’d once told me it looked like a tiny, crushed heart.
His head lifted slowly. His eyes, dark and unreadable, rose from my arm to my face. He didn’t look confused anymore. He didn’t look revolted. He looked… certain.
He knew.
The knowledge passed between us without a single word. It was in the way his gaze held mine, no longer skittering away. It was in the slight, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. It was in the way his thumb, still resting on the birthmark, pressed down for one deliberate, acknowledging second.
He saw the boy, Ross, with his chopped hair and bound chest and grimy face. And he saw me, Rose, the girl with the strawberry birthmark and the stolen lavender soap. He saw both of us, layered one over the other, and the truth finally, irrevocably, clicked into place.
I waited for the explosion. For the betrayal. For the “How could you?”
It never came.
He held my gaze for a long, endless moment, his expression a complex map of shock, understanding, and a dawning, protective fury. He saw the sheer, naked terror in my eyes, and something in his own softened.
Deliberately, slowly, he looked back down at my arm. He said nothing. Not a word. He simply resumed his work, his movements even more gentle than before. He finished cleaning the cut, applied a poultice of crushed herbs Maman Brigitte had given him, and bound it neatly with a clean strip of cloth.
The whole time, the silence was a physical presence, thick and heavy with everything that was now known and everything that remained unsaid.
When he was done, he didn’t let go of my arm immediately. His hand remained, a warm, steadying bandage over the linen wrapping. His thumb brushed once, softly, over the spot where the birthmark lay hidden beneath.
Then, he released me. He sat back on his heels, his eyes finding mine once more. The message in them was clear.
I know. And I am not saying a word. Not yet.
He stood up, offering me a hand. I took it, my own trembling slightly. He pulled me to my feet, his grip firm and sure.
“You need to be more careful, Ross,” he said, and his voice was perfectly normal, just a comrade chiding another. But his eyes… his eyes were speaking an entirely different language. A language of secrets and promises and a love that had just survived its most dangerous test.
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, my arm throbbing, my heart racing, and my soul laid bare.
The disguise was still on, but for the first time since I’d put it on, I didn’t feel like I was wearing it alone. He was in on the secret now. And in his silence, I found a safety more profound than any I had ever known.
He knew. And he was staying.
The bloody handkerchief was his white flag. And my surrender was the trust I placed in his silence.