Don’t Tame It!

Chapter 35

Uno stepped aside as he spoke. The soldier, eyes filled with fear, looked back and forth between Uno and Irene.

When Irene picked up the needle, the soldier panicked and stepped back.

“W-what are you doing…?” he stammered.

Uno smirked and pressed down on the soldier’s head and shoulders with his strong arms.

“Ugh, Sir Uno!”

“Stay still. Stop whining like a child.”

Irene glanced at Uno with satisfaction. He reminded her of a whale shark—large and intimidating, yet unexpectedly gentle.

“Sir Uno! My shoulder is going to break!”

Hmm. Maybe “gentle” wasn’t the right word after all.

Exactly three minutes later, Uno’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“How is this even possible…?”

He blinked, looking dumbfounded. It wasn’t fabric being stitched—it was human skin. And yet, Irene had finished in just three minutes.

Uno knew better than anyone that human skin wasn’t easy to sew. After all, he spent his days handling flesh. No one could gain that kind of skill with just a few practice runs.

He observed Irene. She wasn’t all talk, like Miguel Flich. She had practiced this technique hundreds, maybe thousands of times until it became second nature.

In other words, she proved her ability through effort.

Without realizing it, Uno leaned closer to Irene, reaching out toward the needle she held.

“This needle… it looks different from what we usually use—”

Smack!

Irene instinctively slapped Uno’s hand away.

A heavy silence filled the air.

Mia darted her eyes around nervously, while the soldier who had just been stitched up stared at the ground as if searching for a lost coin.

Irene clenched her fists to hide her trembling hands. Her bare hands, exposed because she had removed her gloves for the procedure, had turned pale from the pressure.

A wave of self-doubt hit her. Why was she so sensitive about something that didn’t seem to bother anyone else?

She knew the answer. But time couldn’t be reversed, and what was done could never be undone.

Forcing a neutral expression, she spoke.

“As you know, human skin is tougher than you’d think. That’s why we use a sharper needle than those used for sewing fabric. If you cut one in half, you’d see the cross-section is triangular.”

Uno frowned slightly, watching her. At first, he thought she was looking down on him—like most doctors did on barbers.

It wasn’t the first time, and yet, it still irritated him.

But then, she answered his question directly, as if nothing had happened.

What was she thinking?

“We use very thin silk thread to minimize scarring.”

Her face was unreadable, but her response was sincere. Unlike Miguel Flich, she didn’t mock him or look down on him in front of the soldiers.

“The tool in my left hand is a clamp. It holds the skin in place. Sharper ones are better because blunt ones require more force, which increases the chance of scarring.”

Uno had never met a doctor who spoke to a barber with respect.

He glanced at Irene’s clenched fist. Sensing his gaze, she turned away and started scrubbing her hands in a bucket of water. After drying them with a clean cloth, she pulled out a pair of white gloves from her apron and slipped them on naturally.

But Uno’s eyes remained fixed on her hands.

Then, he finally spoke.

“Here.”

He pointed at the stitched wound. Irene followed his gaze.

“The stitches are slightly raised. If it were me, I would have made them lie flatter.”

“The swelling will go down over time. If the stitches were completely flat from the start, it would leave a sunken scar,” she explained.

Uno nodded slowly. He hadn’t considered that.

Then he asked, “When do you remove the stitches?”

“It depends on the healing speed.”

She paused briefly and looked at the soldier. He was young, healthy, and though anxious, still in good shape.

“Around a week to ten days.”

Irene kept her face blank, but inside, she felt slightly disappointed. She glanced at her stitches.

It took more effort than she expected. Sewing a living person was different from sewing a corpse.

A living body flinched with pain, and its warmth constantly reminded her that it was alive.

She could have done better.

Just as she sighed silently, Uno muttered, almost to himself,

“If someone were there to cut the knots, unnecessary movements could be reduced. That would speed up the process even more.”

Irene nodded but knew that wouldn’t be possible for her. A helper would have to stand very close to her, and she wouldn’t be able to handle that.

She wasn’t normal.

She hadn’t thought about that fact in a long time—though back in university, it was something she had considered every day.

Just then, a soldier burst into the tent, panting.

“His Highness has returned! And he’s brought Commander Alvar’s head!”

The soldiers erupted into cheers. Even the wounded joined in.

Only Uno sighed with a bitter expression.

“No time to rest. We’re about to get even busier.”

He turned to the soldiers.

“Move the corpses elsewhere. Even in victory, our side must have suffered losses. We need space for the injured.”

“Yes, sir!”

As the soldiers moved quickly, Irene gathered her belongings and stepped outside. Now that Divoa was back, it was time for her to resume her duties.

Divoa returned with a triumphant roar. He looked like the god of war himself, and the soldiers following him shouted in the thrill of victory.

Pride. Excitement. Glory.

After suffering a surprise attack and a morale-crushing defeat, the Debois soldiers marched back into camp with their heads held high.

“Half of Alvar’s troops must be dead by now.”

“Watching them flee with their tails between their legs was priceless.”

“When His Highness beheaded Alvar’s commander—damn, I’ll never forget that moment!”

Irene walked through the excited soldiers toward Divoa’s tent.

Dust clung to his hair as he approached, but when he spotted her, he stopped in his tracks.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

It was only a second. But for some reason, it felt much longer.

Divoa stared at Irene as if seeing her for the first time.

Irene’s brows twitched slightly. Divoa followed her gaze and touched his cheek.

“Oh. It’s not my blood.”

Irene nodded as if she already knew.

Divoa’s usual smirk returned. He turned away first, and Irene silently followed.

Mia, who had been standing awkwardly with a bucket and cloth, scrambled after them.

“Sit down.”

Irene gestured to a chair. Divoa, who had been about to change clothes, raised an eyebrow.

“I told you, it’s not my blood. There’s nothing for you to worry about, Doctor Rios.”

But Irene didn’t back down. She looked at him with an unreadable gaze before finally speaking.

“I am Your Highness’s physician. I must check your condition. That is why I am here.”

Divoa studied her, surprised. She held his gaze without flinching.

That amused him.

She was nothing like the noblewomen he knew.

“Besides, Your Highness is still riding the thrill of victory. That means you might not feel pain yet. You could have wounds you haven’t even noticed.”

Victory rush, huh?

She might be right. He was in a good mood, after all.

Chuckling, Divoa raised his hands in surrender and plopped onto the chair.

“If the doctor insists, I have no choice, do I?”

Without answering, Irene took the cloth from Mia and stepped closer.

Her gloved hands moved with precision.

Divoa watched her closely.

Those gloves—

They were like his armor. A thin but clear boundary, meant to protect herself from others.

And yet, when the damp cloth touched his cheek, it was so gentle he barely felt it.