Chapter 7  The Protector

The first thing that Madam Kudo did, upon the untimely, but - as some malicious tongues would attest - liberating, demise of her husband, was to hire a band of notorious, but highly skilled swordsmen, to guard herself, her workers, her guests, and the premises of the Hotel Glory: in particular, the back end of the hotel, a long stretch of dark alley, which many patrons braved, because it reduced the distance to and from the hotel by quite a sizeable amount of time; for time is of the essence when one is an important businessman with important matters weighing upon one's mind.

It was common in the early days when the hotel first opened for patrons to totter out of the restaurant in the early hours of the morning, imbibed with drink, flushed with good humour, but, unfortunately, robbed of good sense, to lie in wait in shadowy corners, and spring upon mortified guests taking a short route back to the hotel through the back alleys, or on horrified workers exiting the hotel to head back home after work. They became such a nuisance, and created such a ruckus that they woke guests from their slumber, and deprived them of much-needed rest - soundproofing was non-existent back then - and so Kudo Hina made the decision to hire a band of guards, and that was how Gu Dong Mae and his Black Dragon Society members became paid employees of the Glory Hotel.

Dong Mae and Hina had known each other for a long time, and they spoke to each other with the ease of old friends, comfortable in each other’s company.

“Who is that man you were talking to?”

“Do you mean the American?” 

“He is American? But he looks like a Joseon man.”

“Some would say an American who looks like a Joseon man,” she smiled a slow smile, “is infinitely more interesting than a Joseon woman who looks like a Japanese.”

Her voice lowered to a silky purr, “or, a Joseon man who looks like a Japanese.” 

She stretched like a cat, lazily, and propped her elbows on her desk, resting her chin so that it lay nestled between both her palms, and studied him, half-mockingly.

“What is this?” He reached out, and trailed a finger down the back of her hand.

“This?” She shrugged. “It is just a scratch. One of the patrons attempted to get too friendly with one of my servers. I stopped him, and got cut.”

He took her hand, and tugged it toward him, bending low over it.

“You have to get this treated.”

“Come,” he pulled her up, still gripping her hand, but gently.

She did not resist, and allowed him to lead her into the kitchen at the back of the hotel.

He held her hand under the running water, reached over for a clean towel hanging on a rack, and dried it carefully, with just the slightest hint, a feathery press, on the cut. He reached up, and took a bottle of herbal salve from a high shelf, opened it, and used a finger to dip into, and scoop out a liberal potion, which he proceeded to smooth slowly, in a circular motion, over, and into the cut. 

Throughout, they were silent, he bending over her hand, like a chivalrous suitor intent on pursuing his suit, she staring down at his lowered head, an inscrutable expression in her eyes.

Why, if she reached out, she could touch that dark head, that lay so tantalisingly close, within a hair's breadth of her hand, and run her fingers through the thick, black strands of hair, tied back so carelessly with that black band, smooth back the wisps of hair that had escaped from its tight confines, and fluttered dreamily at the sides.

She lowered her eyes to his face. He looked younger, vulnerable like this, his eyes intent on his task, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Too often, she had seen that face filled with hate, twisted, venomous, those eyes, burning with mad rage, those lips pulled back in a snarl.

He blew on the salved cut, and she felt the warmth of his breath, light, and fleeting, and intimate.

“There, that is done,” he said, straightening up, so quickly that she was taken aback.

She  snatched her hand back, and stood up at once, her cheeks colouring.

But he was oblivious to her discomfiture, and strode to the door, the gentle stranger gone, and in its place, the mask slipped back on, the face that she was accustomed to seeing: the brusque, hard warrior, her protector, the man without a heart. 

“Keep it dry, and put that salve on it until it crusts.”

He was out the door before she had a chance to coin a fitting, flippant reply, in her usual manner, but the door swung shut, and he was gone, leaving her with a flush upon her cheeks, her heart beating fast, a faint tingle lingering upon her hand from the gossamer wings of his breath.