To Bewitch a Devil

222 A liar too

Penelope didn’t find the need to run when Azriel rounded the corner and met her scrubbing the dusty stairs leading up to the roof. Another maid was right at the top, and she washed away the suds with water once Penelope rose from the ground.

Azriel stopped in front of her, and Pen busied herself by patting her wet hands on her apron.

“I have been looking for you,” Azriel said. She looked at him then, and his eyes, so vulnerably soft yet dipped in an annoyed worry, tempted her to melt at his concern.

“I have been in the estate, my Lord,” she said.

The other maid halted in her cleaning, and she greeted her Master, curious eyes jumping between Penelope and him.

“Let’s go and talk in my chambers,” Azriel said.

“I am actually fine talking here, my Lord,” Penelope said. “And your chambers have been cleaned out already.”

“Pen,” she noticed the ticking in his jaw, the telltale sign that she was beginning to grate on his nerves. Good, he should learn that he couldn’t eat his cake and have it.

“Come with me now, and not a single word of argument from you.” He ordered.

.....

Azriel stalked off, and Penelope gathered the brushes in a pail. She knew the maid had witnessed their conversation and the close way they had stood to each other, but Penelope didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t want to entertain any questions to fuel the gossips that will follow.

She walked to Azriel’s chambers, and her pulse quickened at what she had seen the last time she had been in there. Azriel and the King’s sister. It shouldn’t have affected her the way it did, it really shouldn’t have. But when she had run away from his chambers that day, and out into the stables, she had tucked herself between stacks of hay and allowed her tears to fall freely.

Afterward, her days had a distinct hollowness to them, and she felt her body was nothing but a husk housing a heart. It angered her, having emotions over a rake, but it stayed, stubborn like a leech, and sucked the joy of the day with it.

She inched closer to Azriel’s large doors. There shouldn’t be any need for any talk, he had simply shown her his colours, and reminded her of who he was when she had chosen to be colour-blind.

“Pen,” Azriel called her from inside.

Penelope pushed open the door. Azriel was standing at the center of the room, brawny arms folded over his chest, his face poker.

“Pen, what have I said about taking one step forward and ten steps backward when it comes to dealing with you?” Azriel dived right into talking.

“I am sorry, my Lord. Your affairs behind closed doors aren’t any of my business.”

“You only saw what you chose to see, Pen.”

“What other thing is there to see than the infamous rake, my Lord?” Penelope schooled her features into a mask of neutrality. “I don’t intend to insult you, my Lord, but you have quite the reputation.”

Azriel’s frown burrowed deeper on his forehead. He stalked over to where she stood, his domineering build once intimidation to her long ago.

“Do you remember when I brought you into this estate?” He asked.

Penelope nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Did you remember how wounded you were?”

She didn’t know where he was going with this, but she answered anyway. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Now, imagine as I was treating your wounds then, unzipping your dress so I have your back exposed toward me and someone was to come in, what would be their thought?”

Penelope’s tongue hung on the roof of her mouth, but Azriel had no patience for her silence.

“Well?”

“They would…they would find it a rather compromising situation, my Lord.”

That was when Azriel’s fingers began to work on undoing the buttons of his shirt. Penelope’s eyes widened at his audacity, and she turned to leave. Azriel’s hand caught hers, and with a strong voice, he said, “Stay.”

So she waited, ready to refuse him, trusting her indignant anger would give her enough power to do so, and as he removed his shirt, he turned his back to her.

“What do you see?” He asked.

Penelope saw the clotted scar running across his back. “It’s a scar.”

“Exactly,” he turned back so he was looking at her. “And that was what Freya was doing that day you saw her here. We both have been in several wars, and it is normal for us to do such. Female or male, a warrior is simply that, a warrior.”

Penelope pursed her lips, and Azriel saw the rapid darting of her eyes.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Try to dig up another reason to justify what you saw.”

“I am not digging up any reason,” she defended herself. “But I simply wanted to know…no, I only wanted to state that I haven’t seen two warriors hold hands to heal themselves.”

“I was only speaking with her…”

“...I really have no business knowing…”

“Pen,” he puffed out an exhale. “Will you just…stop? You are insufferable.”

“Insufferable? You can decide to bed the entire seven Kingdoms and I don’t care an ounce, my Lord.”

Azriel stood arms akimbo and narrowed his eyes at her. “You wouldn’t care?”

“Exactly what I said, my Lord.”

“So now you are a liar too,” Azriel said. He placed a hand on her cheek, and Penelope pulled away before he did. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be so worked up.”

“I am only worked up because you insist I must care,” She was frustrated at that point. “I am not those women that would throw fits or tear out their hair thinking they have you all for themselves after one night. No, you can do whatever you want, and with whoever you want, it’s all up to you.”

Azriel had the nerve to wear a smile after her entire rant. She didn’t know her ire had been so worked up it left her breathing like she had just run up a flight of stairs. But if the weight of her anger and hurt could be defined in terms of workload.