The result of that dissonance? Pain. And lots of it.
I distracted myself from the sudden urge to cry by figuring out how to best approach the grass. I couldn’t bend at the waist the way Zohro did. So I eased myself down onto my knees instead, gathering and rolling the long stalks of dried grass and other plants until they resembled bundles about the same size as the ones Zohro had been making. I could feel his eyes on me as I worked, but he said nothing. No encouraging words to tell me I was on the right track.
But no criticism, either.
And when it came time to stuff the box once more, he used the bundles I’d made without complaint. And something told me Zohro would definitely be the type to complain if I’d done it wrong.
Satisfaction swept through me.
Hell yeah, Jolene. Fucking killing it.
Unfortunately, my pride in my human fortitude was severely short-lived. Because the same itching that plagued my back now started up in my hands. The skin was reddening, too.
“Hey, Zohro?”
He yanked a bale from the box then turned to look at me.
“Have you got any gloves?”
“Gloves? What for?”
“For this.” I held up my hands, showing him the spreading redness.
I gasped and flinched, because somehow Zohro was suddenlyright in front of me. He fell heavily to his knees and gripped my wrists, bending until his nose practically brushed my knuckles. I stifled a startled moan as his breath skimmed across my tingling, burning skin.
He made a sound of frustration low in his throat.
“I don’t know enough about human skin. What is it?”
“I think it’s some kind of contact dermatitis or something,” I said. “Pregnancy makes my skin a lot more sensitive to stuff. It’s not dangerous or anything. Just uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable. That was one hell of a euphemism considering it felt like Satan himself was currently pissing unholy lava all over my hands. But I’d never been one for complaining if I could help it. I’d learned early in my life that tears and whining would never win me much sympathy from Pa, and as I’d gotten older, I’d wanted to show him how tough I could be.
I wanted to show Zohro, too. I wasn’t a wimp. Even if I kind of felt like one sometimes.
Zohro released me, and I breathed out, relieved that I now had a moment to scratch frantically at the backs of my hands.
“Don’t do that!” Zohro barked, getting to his feet. With one swift step, he was behind me. One set of claws seized on my hair, lifting it high. His other hand grasped the collar at the back of my shirt and yanked. This time, when I felt his breath, it was on the back of my neck.
My nipples hardened.
“What are you doing back there?” I stammered. I couldn’t wrench myself out of his hold. He had me by the fucking hair!
“Examining you,” he hissed. He released my hair and shirt at the same moment. “Get up.”
Easier said than done.
“Not sure I’m loving your tone right now,” I grumbled, awkwardly manoeuvring myself onto all fours so I could push myself up onto one knee, then stand. But I guessed I was too slow for Zohro, because a second later, he grabbed me under the pits and lifted me like I weighed nothing more than one of those hay bales he’d been tossing around all morning.
He set me gingerly down on my feet, then pulled me by the arm back towards the house.
“I still have grass to bundle,” I cried, craning my neck to look at all the unfinished work we’d left behind.
“Not with those hands, you don’t,” Zohro practically spat. “Your back is inflamed as well.”
“Well, yeah. That hay bale was poking into my back all night long.”
Zohro’s eyes were so white they looked like they could burn a hole right into the ground he was currently stomping over. But despite his obviously foul mood, his hold on my arm was never hard. His bandaged hand cradled my elbow. Like I was something breakable.
