Chapter 81: Banter

Without another word, Levan dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it to her cheek. The sudden coolness made her flinch, her nose wrinkling, and her lips pressing tight as she clutched the clean towel he had given her to her chest, as if it could shield her from the weight of his silence.

Levan was not having it. “Hold still,” he commanded.

She tried. Oh, she tried. Her lashes trembled as the damp cloth dragged across her dirt-streaked skin, wiping away the grime of the forest. His movements were not tender, but they were steady. When she turned instinctively from the cold touch, his hand came up, firm fingers finding the side of her face and holding her still.

“You’re filthy,” he muttered. The words should have stung, but they did not. His tone was so rough and tired that the bite got blunted by the strain in his voice as if the anger had burned itself out and left only ash behind.

Her gaze moved unhesitatingly to his face. There was a muscle ticking in his jaw, and beneath it, something she could not name. So she said nothing. She only nodded faintly, agreeing with him, as if she, too, believed she deserved to be scrubbed clean of everything that happened.

He worked in silence after that, the only sounds the rustle of cloth against skin and the soft splash of water being refreshed, down her arms, careful not to press where she was bandaged. Across her neck, his knuckles grazing the hollow of her throat, her breath catching with each pass.

Levan wrung out the cloth again, his brows furrowed, gaze flicking over her dirt-smeared form.

“Take off your clothes,” he said.

Ilaria nearly squeak, her fingers tightening on her gown. “…W-what?”

His eyes met hers, unwavering. “You’re caked in filth. If you sit there like this, you’ll sicken before morning. Remove them.”

Her mouth parted in protest, but no words came. Her pulse thrummed in her throat as she fumbled with the ties of her dress. Piece by piece, she slipped free of them until only her thin shift and undergarments remained. She curled inward, clutching the towel to her chest as if it could shield her.

She dared a small, weak smile. “…This is enough.”

His gaze dropped, lingered on the bandage at her wrist, and said, “Undergarments too.”

Her breath hitched. “Husband—”

“You can’t,” he cut her off, shaking his head as he looked at her sternly. “Not with that wound. Do as I say.”

Her cheeks burned, the tips of her ears turned hot. She clutched the towel tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can do it myself.”

His expression did not change. “With one hand?”

She faltered. Her lips pressed into a thin line. After a long moment, she reluctantly obeyed. She slipped out of the last of her garments until only the towel shielded her, draped against her skin. She held it with both hands, knuckles white.

Levan did not give her the dignity of looking away. He crouched before her again, dipped the cloth in the basin, and began to wipe her bare shoulders with steady strokes. His movements were efficient and unyielding, but never cruel enough to hurt her.

The towel in her grip trembled as he ran the cloth down her under arms and across her collarbone, brushing too close to where she held herself covered. She made a soft noise in her throat, half flustered, and half frustrated when he gripped her ankle to part her legs aside.

He ignored it, his expression taut as he continued downward, wringing the cloth before dragging it over her stomach, her sides, her legs and down to her toes. Kneeling there, cleaning every trace of dirt from her body as if it was a duty only he could fulfill.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” He asked.

The question caught her off guard. It sounded less like concern and more like a field inquiry, but still she heard the tremor beneath it.

“No… just sore.”

“Sore where?”

She hesitated. “…My ribs and my back. I fell hard.”

He said nothing, only shifted the cloth lower, careful near the area she said was sore. Each pass was deliberate, each breath between them too heavy.

He stood up only to stand behind her, muttering almost absentmindedly as he gathered her hair in his hands, clicking his tongue, “This is why you should’ve stayed in the palace.”

“I got scared—”

“You wouldn’t be scared if you weren’t here in the first place,” he cut in, carefully fussing with her hair to remove the grime. “You were told to stay where it was safe. Do you think my orders are just for show?”

She blinked, frowning faintly. “…I wasn’t thinking about orders. I was thinking about you.”

“That isn’t an excuse. You disobeyed for no reason other than fear. What if I wasn’t here in time?”

“I knew what I was doing,” she murmured defensively. “I managed to dodge the attack, and I’m still alive—”

“Barely,” he snapped. “You call that managing? You could’ve been crushed.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“You don’t know that,” he interrupted again, sharper this time. “You don’t get to measure your recklessness by how lucky you were to survive it.”

Ilaria flinched, but he did not stop. “Do you think I’d care if you fought well, if you stood your ground, if you tried?” His fingers flexed unconsciously against the ends of her hair. “None of that matters if you’re not breathing at the end of it.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat constricted as his words sank in, his frustration, his fear, all of it.

Levan’s fingers move through the last of her hair until the dirt loosened and the pale strands gleamed faintly in the lantern light. “I told you to stay behind because I knew what was waiting in that forest. Tell me, Aria, what would I have come back to if you hadn’t?”

Ilaria went still. The sting in his voice was too sharp, the truth too near. So slowly, she turned halfway toward him, eyes wide, her lower lip trembling as she tried to form a reply, but the sight of his stern expression stopped her.

She looked down instead, sulking. “…I said I’m sorry,” she muttered, voice small, the edge of her words swallowed by the silence inside the tent.

Levan exhaled, long and slow, the sound rough in his chest. His jaw tightened as he stared at her profile, the curve of her cheek, the smudge of dirt still clinging near her jaw, and the faint tremble of her lower lip.

Gods, that pout. It was such a small and childish thing, but it twisted something in him every time.

“Aria,” he said lowly, the weight of her name dragging between them.

But she did not move, did not even lift her gaze. The silence stretched thin, and something in him gave in. He reached out before he could stop himself, his thumb brushing just beneath her chin to tilt her face up. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, the pulse at her throat unsteady.

His eyes met hers then, wet, uncertain, and defiant in that quiet way she always was when she wanted him to stop being angry.

“Don’t pout whenever I’m trying to talk to you,” he said, but the reprimand came softer now, the steel in his tone dulled by exhaustion.

She sniffled, her breath hitching against his touch. “You’re always angry when you talk to me,” she whispered.

It was his turn to still. The words sank in deeper than she probably meant them to. His fingers lingered a second too long before settling back on her shoulder, the weight of his hand grounding but gentle. His head dropped slightly, the tension in his jaw easing as he finally relented.

“I’m not—” he started, then stopped, breath catching halfway through. His voice, when it came again, was quieter. “I’m not angry at you, Aria. I’m angry because…” His eyes flicked to the bandage around her arm, to the faint tremor that still ghosted through her fingers.

He sighed, the sound breaking low in his chest. If he indulged his restlessness any further, it would only unravel her more. So he forced the tension down, steadying his breath as he moved to her front again and slowly lowered himself into a crouch before her.

His gaze lifted to meet hers. “…Fine,” he said at last, willing himself to be patient, to not be clouded by his own ego alone. “I was the one who allowed you to come with me. I was in the wrong.”

She still refused to move.

Levan lifted a hand, his thumb brushing faintly along her cheek, tracing the curve just beneath her eye. His voice dropped lower, softer now, but there was no mistaking the firm thread of command beneath it. “Look at me.”

She hesitated, then lifted her gaze slowly.

“There,” he murmured when their eyes finally locked, and something in the way he said it, like a quiet surrender, made her heart twist.

“You always do that… look away as if I’m about to strike you.” His thumb moved again, a steady motion that felt almost absentminded. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Aria.”

Her lashes fluttered then, her lips frowning towards something close to sadness. “…You don’t have to talk to me like I’m breakable.”

“You’re not,” he said, and the faintest hint of warmth crept into his voice. “But after what happened tonight, forgive me if I can’t pretend otherwise.”

Her chest rose with a shaky breath. “You really were angry.”

He gave a short hum of acknowledgment. “Angry, yes. At the beasts. At myself. At the thought of losing you, not at you.” His eyes softened then, their gold catching the lantern light. “I take it back, yeah? Everything I said, I didn’t mean them.”

She said nothing, only lowered her gaze, her lashes trembling. Levan noticed, so he took her hands in his. Her silence was familiar, painfully so. She had always been like this, folding in on herself when the world grew too loud, mistaking quiet for safety.

And he, fool that he was, had met that quiet with sharp edges instead of care. He should have known better. He should have remembered that someone as soft as her needed steadiness, not storms.

“Hey,” he murmured, gentler now, “don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.”

Her eyes lifted hesitantly to his again, and he managed a faint, rueful smile. “You think I’d waste my breath scolding you if I didn’t care?” His shifted his hand, interlocking their fingers. “You drive me mad, Aria, but that doesn’t mean I want you afraid of me.”

He squeezed her hand, as if he could not bear to let go. “Forgive me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “For forgetting, even for a second, that you were only trying to protect yourself.”

Ilaria watched him then, at the way his gaze lingered on her like it hurt to look. And so, she slowly nodded.

He exhaled heavily, as if that wordless acceptance undid him more than any confession could. Then he reached for her arm, the one wrapped in fresh bandages. His fingers brushed carefully along the edges of the linen, testing the firmness of the wrap, then trailed down the curve of her forearm. “Does it still hurt?”

She shook her head. “No… not anymore.”

He did not look convinced. His thumb lingered over her pulse before moving to her elbow, tracing a faint line there where a bruise had begun to bloom. His touch was clinical at first, but there was a gentleness beneath it that betrayed the storm behind his restraint.

“Nothing feels wrong?” he murmured.

“Only my pride,” she said softly, attempting a smile.

That earned her the faintest curve of his mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough to one that her chest ached. He gave a quiet hum and drew back. “Let’s get you to bed. You’ve done enough for one night.”

He started to rise, his hand still lingering briefly on her elbow. But before he could step away, her voice, small and uncertain, broke the silence. “…My clothes?”

Levan stilled mid-motion. His gaze flicked down briefly, tracing the outline of the towel she clutched against herself before lifting back to her face.

Right…

She blinked up at him, cheeks pink, damp eyes wide and pleading in the most unintentionally disarming way.

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