Your heart speeds up almost unconsciously, somehow too naturally, as if your body has already gotten used to worrying, to experiencing this. Cain's long fingers carefully touch the edges of a shallow wound on your thigh. He carefully watches how the tissues are connected under his palms, purses his lips, thinking that he is guilty. You know exactly what he thinks.

Despite the throbbing pain in your leg, this knowledge alone makes you freeze in trembling excitement and direct all your strength to stop your lips from twisting into a barely noticeable smile. This knowledge sticks to your cheeks like fire, forcing you to move into the darkness, away from the dim light of the moon pouring from a small window under the very ceiling of a cramped room.

"The wound is not serious, I think there won't even be a scar left..." Cain speaks ingratiatingly, quietly, as if addressing himself, not you. He only lifts his head when he runs the pads of his fingers along the edges of the wound once more. Then, with a thoughtful glance sliding over your face, he leans down and, closing his eyes, kisses your bare knee. "It won't hurt anymore."

You can't help but let out a humorless laugh. His warm whisper sends a herd of goosebumps down your legs, making the small hairs stand on end, and Cain, noticing this, rubs your skin, as if in an equally natural attempt to soothe.