Don’t Tame It [Novel]

44.

Irene returned to her office and washed her hands in the sink in the corner. She lathered them with soap and scrubbed until her skin burned under the friction of the scouring pad.

Even so, the phantom body heat she had felt through the gloves clung to her fingers, refusing to fade.

―I am sincere. I do not know how to thank you enough.

The voice, thick with reverence, echoed in her ears. Irene scrubbed the backs of her hands harder, desperate to scrape the memory of that sound away.

Suddenly, a large hand clamped onto her wrist.

“!”

Irene’s spine stiffened. It wasn’t the surprise of the intrusion. It was—

“…….”

Irene tilted her head, her eyes wide and blank.

She should have felt a jolt of terror. She should have wanted to scream, to bolt from the room.

But she didn’t.

Her hesitant gaze drifted down. Diego was gripping her wrist over her sleeve. She couldn’t feel his skin against hers, and only then did a breath of relief escape her.

“Now I know why your knuckles are so raw. Do you always scrub your hands so violently?”

Irene tilted her head again. His tone was different—sharper.

Was he angry?

She dismissed the thought. She had no aptitude for reading emotions, and regardless, there was no reason for him to be upset.

……Was there?

Irene lowered her gaze. Leticia had often told her she had a preternatural talent for inciting others’ ire. Perhaps, without knowing it, she had provoked him.

Diego tightened his grip, pulling her hand from the sink.

Drip.

Drip.

Irene watched the water droplets hit the floor before reaching for a clean cloth. Only when she began to dry her hands did Diego finally release her. Yet, her skin throbbed where he had held her, as if his touch had left a permanent imprint.

“I have met countless doctors, but you are the first who feels the need to wash up after every patient.”

He likely intended the remark to soften the mood, but Irene’s expression turned bitter.

She knew she was peculiar. She had been told as much until she was nauseated by the criticism. Her classmates would walk around with blood-stained hands after surgeries; when she found them repulsive, they were the ones who called her wrong.

―Stop being so sensitive, Broomstick. We have a queue of patients; how can you afford the luxury of washing your hands?

―Maxy is right. Stop wasting time at the basin and get back to work, Iron Wall. If you slack off, we all suffer.

No matter how they mocked her, Irene could not stop. It was her ritual.

A ritual to shed the tactile residue of her work, to keep from growing accustomed to human warmth, to reset her world to zero.

Diego’s voice, now unnervingly gentle, pierced her thoughts.

“It is a precious hand, so wouldn’t it be better to cherish it?”

“!”

*Precious.*

Irene’s eyes widened. She looked down at her hands. They were nothing of the sort.

“If your hands were to be damaged, I think I would be saddened.”

Sometimes, Irene simply could not fathom Diego. He insisted she was not fine when she claimed to be, and now this. Why would he be sad if her hands were damaged?

Irene hurried to pull her gloves back on, hiding her skin. Diego’s intense gaze remained fixed on her until her fingers were safely encased in white fabric.

It wasn’t cold, yet her fingers curled inward, trembling. That, too, was strange. She had never before cared who watched her. But Diego’s gaze seemed to carry a physical heat, leaving her restless. She wanted him to change the atmosphere, but he remained motionless.

Unable to endure the stifling tension, she spoke, desperate to cut through the air.

“They are not precious hands.”

“Not precious?”

Diego whispered the words. Irene walked toward the sofa, feigning a casual air.

“They are dirty hands. They exist to slice open the abdomens of corpses and saw through ribs.”

“Who told you that?”

Irene stopped mid-step and slowly turned. Diego, who had been stoic just a moment before, was now smiling.

But somehow, he looked even angrier than before.

*That can’t be.*

Irene sighed internally, feeling she was still a long way from being “normal.” Diego’s smile deepened.

“Who said such a thing to you?”

His voice was sickly sweet.

Irene, still distracted, looked toward the ceiling, tracing the intricate embossed patterns. She remembered Leticia once remarking, “Expensive things have different details.” She supposed the ceiling of her office must be quite costly.

“Well? Tell me. Who said it?”

Irene blinked, returning to the present. She didn’t know why he was so curious, but she answered without suspicion.

“Leticia did.”

“And.”

“Yes?”

“What else did she say to you, Miss Rios?”

Irene tilted her head. Her memory was pristine; she could recite the words without missing a syllable.

“She said I am no different from a butcher carving up beasts. She said I am a troublemaker, a lost cause, and that I would never be normal for as long as I lived.”

“Ha.”

Diego let out a laugh—a sound like biting into jagged ice. He had assumed Irene’s home life was loveless, but this level of vitriol was staggering.

He didn’t know why he felt such a surge of rage, but he couldn’t let it go. Especially when he looked at Irene, who recited the insults with a calm, accepting expression, as if they were simple truths.

“Miss Irene, you are not a troublemaker. You are not a lost cause.”

“!”

Irene’s eyes rounded. She shook her head quietly.

“No, I am. People dislike me. I suppose I have a talent for making them angry. If I have angered Your Excellency, I apologize. It was not my intention.”

Diego clenched his jaw. *A talent for making others angry.* So that was why he, too, was feeling this heat in his chest.

She had been defenseless, exposed to such malice for so long, enduring it all on her own. Without a single shield.

“I.”

Irene, seated on the sofa, looked up at him. Diego stared into her empty eyes and spoke slowly.

“I like you.”

“!”

Irene held her breath. Her mask of calm shattered.

Her eyebrows shot upward, and her pupils trembled. Her lips parted, moving silently as she scrambled for a response.

Diego felt flustered. He hadn’t intended to say that. He was merely angry, simply wishing to offer comfort. To blurt out such a thing—

He wiped his chin with a dry hand and added an excuse.

“You are my attending physician, are you not? A highly competent one.”

“……Ah.”

A low exclamation escaped her. She stared at him blankly, then nodded.

She knew he was a generous employer. He probably cherished everyone under his roof.

*Like.*

Irene repeated the word to herself. It was a strange, foreign sound. She hadn’t heard it in a very long time.

*Don’t bring it out. Don’t remember it.*

Irene hurried to seal that box shut in her mind.

“But if Your Excellency wishes, I will try… I will try to wash my hands less.”

“There is no need for that,” Diego said firmly.

“Do as you wish. Here, no one will force you to do anything you dislike.”

“……Yes.”

Diego was truly an enigma. He called the things others labeled “strange” normal, and he claimed to like someone everyone else despised. Her employer was a generous, albeit peculiar, man.

“However, I am curious about one thing.”

Irene, reaching for a sweet potato muffin, paused and looked up.

Diego was staring intently at her hands, as if he could see her skin through the gloves.

“Why you wash them like that.”

“Because they are dirty.”

Irene answered readily. After he left, she would take out her needle and thread to clean her tools. There was only one reason. They were dirty.

Irene picked up the pie and took a large bite. The crust was dry from being left out, but the sweetness remained.

“Ah.”

Irene looked at Diego, as if she had just remembered her manners, and slid the one remaining piece toward him.

“Would you like some?”