Don’t Tame It [Novel]

17.

Such an emotion was entirely foreign to Duke Diego Cassis. He was the kind of child who wouldn’t cry even when his siblings snatched away his toys, a man who remained unattached even to the brilliant promise of the throne.

At times, it was to the point where his parents would lament, “I wish Diego were just a little more greedy.”

Yet, why did he want her so much?

The barber’s needle was not as precise as Irene Rios’. Nor was it as beautiful.

No, to begin with, they didn’t even use needles. They cauterized with irons and hammered away with mallets. Because of that, even after the wounded soldiers recovered, they were forced to live with massive scars, like a mark of divine punishment.

Was the reason he coveted her merely because of her skill?

Duke Diego Cassis’s intense gaze remained fixed on her fingers. She always wore gloves, so this was the first time he had looked closely at her bare hands.

If one were to count, there was probably no man who had held a woman’s hand more often than Duke Diego Cassis. Ever since he began attending banquets, he had been obligated to dance with women. At times, more than a dozen women would pass through his hands in a single day.

It was a duty one born into the royal family had to endure—whether for the union of two houses, a new business venture, or simply the courtesy of a gentleman.

However, none of those hands had captivated Duke Diego Cassis like Irene Rios’.

These were not soft, supple hands that had never held anything heavier than a fork. Nor were they clean, plump hands maintained by maids.

They were long, slender fingers.

There was no unnecessary fat on them. Her well-proportioned fingers moved as merrily as if they were dancing.

If only those fingers would move just a little bit slower.

“…….”

Suddenly, Duke Diego Cassis narrowed his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed once. Silently.

He brushed his own finger through the air, as if stroking the back of someone’s hand.

It didn’t seem to be a conscious action—not when he clicked his tongue a moment later and shoved both hands into his trousers pockets.

Then, having noticed something, Duke Diego Cassis furrowed his brows. He narrowed his eyes further, staring fixedly at one spot.

It was Irene Rios’s fingertips. They were redder than the rest of her skin. It didn’t take long for him to realize why: her hands were chapped, like those of a maid who performed manual labor.

Tsk.

He clicked his tongue again. Washing her hands in cold water in this kind of weather—of course her skin would chap.

“Haa.”

Having finished the final suture, Irene Rios straightened her back, which she had kept hunched for so long. Duke Diego Cassis, having pulled his hands from his pockets, picked up the scissors on the table and held them out to her.

The movement was fluid, like flowing water. Irene Rios, about to take them absentmindedly, hesitated. Only then did she seem to recall his presence.

She shifted her gaze downward, hesitant. The handle was facing her. He, who surely had never served another person in his life, had offered the object at the exact right moment.

“…….”

Instead of taking them, Irene Rios looked around. There were no other scissors to be seen.

This time, she turned her head toward Duke Diego Cassis. As their eyes met, he gave a smile and merely arched his brows.

As if asking why she wasn’t taking them. Or as if he meant nothing else by it.

Left with no choice, Irene Rios slowly reached out. It took a tedious amount of time, but Duke Diego Cassis did not rush her. He knew that the moment he opened his mouth, she would run away far into the distance.

He exercised persistent patience, like a man waiting for a wary stray cat to approach. Perhaps he even enjoyed the moment; the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth deepened.

Only after a long while did Irene Rios lightly grasp the handle of the scissors. After staring at him intently—like a stray cat gauging whether he was a threat—she finally showed an expression of relief.

At that moment, Duke Diego Cassis could not suppress the rising impulse. With a stealthily extended index finger, he brushed the back of her hand as if by mistake.

Surprisingly, it was soft. He had expected it to be rough, but the place where his finger grazed felt cold and smooth like marble.

“Thank… Ah!”

And the stray cat, having offered its hand in an unguarded moment, immediately bristled and bolted.

Irene Rios stopped breathing. Duke Diego Cassis’s smiling face was reflected in her icy blue pupils.

Startled, she hurriedly pulled her hand away. The scissors, losing their destination, wobbled and clattered to the floor.

The back of her hand, where they had touched, stung as if it had been burned. It felt as though his body heat still lingered there.

Irene Rios scrubbed the back of her hand against her apron, as if trying to erase the trace. But no matter how hard she tried, the sensation would not be wiped away.

But then.

“Your Highness!”

Butler Javier appeared at her side in an instant, no longer the shadow that stood one step behind.

Irene Rios, startled by the shout, shivered. But she was not Butler Javier’s concern.

It had been the same back then. When Leti spilled tea on Duke Diego Cassis’s hand, or when a ferocious dog had lunged at him snarling. The shadow revealed its presence whenever danger befell the Duke.

“Are you alright?”

Irene Rios’s gaze followed Butler Javier, whose expression had stiffened into stone.

“!”

In an instant, her deep blue eyes widened. Blood was seeping from Duke Diego Cassis’s finger. He had cut his fingertip on the blade of the falling scissors.

The wound was nothing to speak of. The issue was his status. Irene Rios had inflicted a wound on the body of Duke Diego Cassis—the Third Prince, a Grand Duke, and the Commander-in-Chief.

Butler Javier glared at Irene Rios with eyes sharp enough to kill. It was an excessive reaction for such a minor wound, but Irene Rios had nothing to say. It was an undeniable fact that she had wounded him.

“Your Highness, I will summon Professor Figueras immediately. No, better yet, the Dean of the Royal Medical College…”

“That is enough. Why such a commotion over something so trivial?”

Duke Diego Cassis replied nonchalantly.

“But, Your Highness! You are…”

Butler Javier, who had been about to argue, clamped his mouth shut.

Coming to her senses, Irene Rios picked up a clean cloth from the table. Regardless of his status, the Butler’s fussing was beyond reasonable limits. To call for a professor or the Dean over a scratch?

Even if Irene Rios hadn’t attended the Royal Medical College, it was a wound she could handle. A five-year-old wouldn’t cry over such a thing.

First, to stop the bleeding.

Irene Rios, about to press the cloth to the wound, hesitated.

“…….”

Only after putting on the gloves she had left on the table did she pick up the cloth again. She pressed down on the wound.

Butler Javier called out, “Your Highness,” as if he had more to say, but Duke Diego Cassis only gazed into Irene Rios’s blue eyes.

She frowned, looking uncharacteristically troubled.

“I apologize. The wound is not large, so the bleeding should stop soon.”

Duke Diego Cassis only smiled instead of answering. Butler Javier clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists.

“…….”

Irene Rios could not take her eyes off Duke Diego Cassis’s finger. The white cloth was being stained with bright red blood.

Once again, it was not that large of a wound. Yet, blood that should have stopped long ago was still soaking through the cloth.

Why?

Finally, Irene Rios’s pupils showed a hint of bewilderment. She pressed her fingers a little harder.

But no matter how long she waited, the blood showed no sign of stopping. Her hesitating gaze turned toward Duke Diego Cassis.

As their eyes met, he arched his brows with an unconcerned expression and spoke in a light, almost frivolous tone.

“They call it a hereditary disease. That there are other men on my mother’s side who have the same condition.”

“The disease where the blood does not stop, you mean?”

Irene Rios faltered, as if choosing her words. Duke Diego Cassis, watching the bloodstain consume more than half of the white cloth, answered as naturally as if he were discussing the weather.

“In my mother’s kingdom, they call it the ‘cursed blood’.”

“Hemophilia.”

At Irene Rios’s firm word, Duke Diego Cassis’s gaze shifted to her face. Her eyes, usually indifferent, were staring straight at him.

“It is not cursed blood, but hemophilia. It is the medical term defined in textbooks.”

“Well, they call it that too.”

He arched his brows once more, as if to say that no matter what one called it, the fact that his blood was cursed remained unchanged.

Irene Rios applied more pressure. There was no cure for hemophilia yet; the only thing to do was to apply firm pressure until the bleeding stopped.

If one were lucky, the bleeding would stop. If one were unlucky, they would die of excessive blood loss.

When learning about hemophilia, the story of the Musco Peninsula was invariably brought up. The disease was famous as a hereditary illness passed down through the royal family, and the stories of unlucky men suffering from it were no longer a secret.

They generally did not live past the age of thirty. No matter how careful one was, misfortune arrived unexpectedly—the blade of a political rival, the spear of an enemy soldier, or a sudden accident.

Even a trivial scratch was fatal to them.

Duke Diego Cassis smirked, as if he knew what she was thinking. He narrowed his eyes and gazed intensely at Irene Rios.

The look in her eyes as she watched him remained steady. In those blue eyes, clear as the sky, neither pity nor sympathy could be found.

“Hahaha.”

Suddenly, Duke Diego Cassis burst into laughter. It was pleasant.

“Your Highness. Are you certain you do not need to summon the Dean or the Professor? Miss Rios is merely a graduate, after all.”

Butler Javier’s worried inquiry cut his laughter short. Duke Diego Cassis’s eyes narrowed slightly.