Chapter 17
Divoa found himself feeling something unfamiliar. He had been a child who didn’t cry when his brothers took his toys and a man who wasn’t overly attached to the glittering throne of royalty. Even his parents would sometimes sigh and wish, “If only Divoa could desire a little more.”
But why did he want her so badly?
The barbers in his realm weren’t as skilled or graceful as Irene. They didn’t even use needles. Instead, they cauterized wounds with crude tools and hammered things into place. Their patients were left with scars so large they seemed like a curse.
Was it just her skill that made her so desirable?
Divoa’s steady gaze lingered on her hands. He hadn’t seen them without gloves before. Thinking back, he might be one of the men who had held the most women’s hands—he’d danced with countless ladies at royal events. It was his duty as a prince, whether for alliances, business, or simple manners.
Yet, no hand had ever fascinated him as much as Irene’s. Her fingers were long and nimble, devoid of any unnecessary fat, moving with an elegant rhythm that made them seem like they were dancing.
If only her fingers would slow down just a bit.
Divoa’s gaze sharpened as he narrowed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. Unconsciously, he reached out as if brushing someone’s hand. The motion wasn’t deliberate—he clicked his tongue and stuffed his hands into his pockets as if irritated with himself.
Then he noticed something. His brows knitted as he stared at her fingertips. They were red—chapped from work, like a servant’s hands exposed to cold water. He clicked his tongue again in disapproval.
When Irene finally finished stitching, she straightened her back after hours of bending over. Divoa handed her a pair of scissors resting on the table with a smooth, natural motion. Irene hesitated as if just now realizing he was there.
She looked around for another pair of scissors but found none. Her gaze returned to him, and Divoa raised his brows in a teasing yet innocent manner. Reluctantly, she reached for them. It took her a long time, but Divoa didn’t rush her. He waited patiently, like someone trying to coax a wary stray cat.
Finally, she took the scissors, and just as she did, Divoa gave in to an impulse. He brushed her hand ever so lightly with his finger, as if by accident. To his surprise, her skin wasn’t rough—it was cool and smooth, almost like marble.
“Thank you… Ah!” Irene gasped, pulling her hand back like she’d been burned. Startled, she dropped the scissors, and they clattered to the floor. Her hand tingled as though Divoa’s touch had left a lingering heat. She scrubbed at the spot with her apron, trying to erase the sensation.
At that moment, Javier appeared at Divoa’s side in an instant—an unusual move for the ever-distant shadow. Startled by the sudden commotion, Irene flinched.
“Your Highness!” Javier’s voice was sharp with concern.
Irene followed his gaze and gasped. Divoa’s finger was bleeding—a small cut from the falling scissors. The injury wasn’t serious, but his status as a prince made it grave. Javier glared at Irene with a ferocity that seemed disproportionate to the situation.
“I’ll summon Professor Figueras immediately—or perhaps the dean,” Javier insisted.
“It’s nothing,” Divoa replied calmly.
“But, Your Highness—”
Javier fell silent under Divoa’s firm gaze. Irene grabbed a clean cloth from the table. While Divoa’s title warranted concern, Javier’s reaction seemed excessive. The cut was minor—something even a child wouldn’t cry over.
Irene hesitated for a moment before putting on her gloves. Only then did she press the cloth against his wound. Javier still looked uneasy.
“Your Highness,” Irene said quietly, “I apologize. The wound is small, and the bleeding should stop soon.”
Divoa smiled faintly but said nothing. Javier, meanwhile, clenched his jaw and fists in frustration. Irene, too, seemed troubled. The blood kept soaking through the cloth despite her pressure.
“Why isn’t it stopping?” she muttered, applying more force. Divoa’s nonchalant demeanor didn’t reassure her.
“It’s hereditary,” Divoa finally said, breaking the silence. “Men in my mother’s family are cursed with blood that doesn’t clot.”
“Cursed blood?” Irene repeated.
Divoa nodded with a faint smirk. “That’s what they call it in my mother’s homeland.”
“It’s called hemophilia,” Irene corrected firmly, her blue eyes locking onto his. “Not cursed blood. It’s a medical condition.”
Divoa chuckled softly, as though her defiance amused him. “Call it what you like.”
Irene pressed harder on the wound. There was no cure for hemophilia—only careful management and a reliance on luck. And for men like Divoa, born into a lineage plagued by this condition, luck often ran out early. The blood didn’t just trickle; it carried the weight of history and mortality.
Divoa seemed to understand her thoughts, his faint smile growing sharper. “Does that worry you?” he asked, his tone light but probing.
Irene didn’t flinch. Her unwavering blue eyes reflected no pity, only determination. For some reason, that made Divoa laugh aloud, startling both Javier and Irene.
“Your Highness, shouldn’t we call for the dean or a professor?” Javier interrupted, his voice edged with worry.
Divoa’s smile faded as his expression darkened, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
