Chapter 995: Unexpected Injury

Besse’s heart fluttered, leaving her momentarily disoriented. This couldn't be happening. She had spent less than twelve hours with Oscar, yet she felt… something. Doyle would be furious. The thought of Doyle instantly chilled her demeanor toward Oscar.

"I'm sorry I let you go hungry," she said. "Let's eat."

Oscar hesitated, questioning her earlier casualness. He nodded. "Let's eat."

Walking to the dining hall, he led the way through the dimly lit room, the faint glow of the television their only guide. Besse’s eyesight, worsened by late nights designing, had become moderately nearsighted; she’d forgotten her glasses. She groped her way along, following Oscar. A few steps in, she bumped into a corner, crying out in surprise and pain. Oscar quickly turned.

Besse tried to move, but another potted plant loomed. Before she could collide with it, Oscar caught her, startling her with his sudden embrace. It felt both strange and familiar. Instinctively, she pushed away, knocking over the plant, which fell onto them both with a resounding crash.

The noise echoed, alerting the nearby guards, who rushed in cautiously. They saw Oscar under the fallen greenery, Besse staring, shocked.

"Get out!" Oscar commanded, before standing.

The guards withdrew. The situation felt awkward, as if Oscar had sought intimacy and been brusquely rebuffed.

Alone again, Besse recalled the guards’ arrival, guns drawn. Her boldness on his turf frightened her. She imagined a beating.

She saw Oscar rise; the flowerpot lay shattered, soil scattered. "It's okay," he said casually, "the servants will clean it tomorrow." He showed no displeasure, almost as if someone else had caused the fall. He even offered comfort.

Besse remained silent, perplexed by his humility. They reached the dining room, the food kept warm.

"Let's eat," Oscar said, maintaining a distance.

Besse nodded, pretending not to notice the bloodstains near his wrist. They ate in silence, the awkwardness palpable. Afterward, they left, still keeping their distance.

"Mr. Commander," Besse called. Oscar stiffened, then composed himself.

"Mm-hmm?"

"Don't you want me to tend to your wrist?" She was concerned; he’d been hurt because of her.

His wrist moved slightly. "Is there a first-aid kit? I'll get you patched up."

"Yes."

"Where is it?" Before he could answer, Besse found it, readily available. She placed it on the coffee table. Oscar sat, extending his wrist. The wound, longer and deeper than she anticipated, was surprisingly lacking in blood. Then she saw the bloodstains on the floor.

"Why didn't you say anything?!" she exclaimed.

The extent of the bleeding alarmed her, as did the blood-soaked clothing.

"If something happens to you, am I going to die here?!"

"No," he said calmly, "you won't die." He would never let her die again.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He saw her anxiety, interpreting it as concern, stirring past memories. "It doesn't hurt," he said calmly.

She knew he lied. Applying iodine, he winced. The sudden pain, after a period of preoccupation, surprised him.

"I thought you said it didn't hurt?"

Oscar chuckled. "I'm afraid of being laughed at."

"There's no sense in pride."

He smiled as she gently cleaned the wound, blowing on it.