Don’t Tame It!

Chapter 39

“Is that so?”

Divoa nodded with a gentle expression. Javier looked at him for a moment before turning away and leaving the tent.

Now, only Divoa and Irene remained.

“Doctor?”

At Divoa’s call, Irene, who had been staring at the entrance, slowly turned her head. Divoa smiled and urged her.

“Help me take off my shirt.”

“…Yes.”

Irene put on the most neutral expression she could manage. It wasn’t a big deal for a doctor to undress a patient.

She reached out but suddenly hesitated. Divoa was sitting in a chair, and she was standing in front of him. It wasn’t a comfortable position to remove clothing.

After a brief moment of thought, Irene knelt in front of him. Now, their heights matched.

“…….”

Divoa watched her actions with interest.

Irene glanced at her gloved hands for a moment, then suddenly reached out, almost as if grabbing him.

Divoa frowned slightly at the unexpected boldness but then let out a chuckle. Her movements were careful despite the forcefulness.

A deep wrinkle formed on Irene’s forehead as she struggled with the first button.

It wasn’t because Divoa was only wearing a silk shirt instead of his usual uniform.

It wasn’t because the buttons were particularly small—though that didn’t help either.

More than anything, the loose fabric of her gloves made it difficult to grasp the buttons properly. After several failed attempts, she pressed her lips together in frustration.

Divoa, his expression soft, spoke in an easy tone.

“It might be easier if you take off the gloves.”

“…….”

Irene hesitated. She knew that, but she couldn’t just remove her gloves so easily. Instead of answering, she made a seventh attempt.

Divoa sighed, pretending to be disappointed.

“If my fingers weren’t in pain, I wouldn’t have troubled you with this. I truly regret it.”

At that, Irene glanced up at him.

He had first called her “Dr. Rios,” then “Doctor,” and now, “Irene.”

She had one name but many titles—nothing unusual for her.

“Mm?”

Divoa raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. Then, like a soldier surrendering, he lifted both hands.

“The pain is quite severe, you see.”

“Should I check your fingers first?”

“No, my shoulder seems more urgent. So, it would be best if you hurry in taking off my shirt.”

Irene looked down at her gloved hands again. She was his doctor. If Divoa was in pain, it was her duty to examine him.

Would it be better to call Miguel instead?

Just as she was about to voice her thought—

“I know you don’t like physical contact with others, Irene. But think about it. It’s just unbuttoning a shirt. You won’t even be touching my skin.”

“…….”

He had a point. Buttons weren’t living things. There was nothing to fear.

Finally, Irene nodded firmly, as if making a decision. After hesitating for a moment, she slowly removed her gloves.

Divoa narrowed his eyes as he watched her.

As the white gloves slipped off, her pale wrists were revealed.

It was a sight so mesmerizing, that Divoa could hardly look away.

Slender wrists that seemed incapable of breaking ribs with a saw and hammer.

Then, her hands.

Smooth and delicate.

And finally, her fingers—long and elegant.

They moved before him, unbuttoning his shirt. Divoa’s gaze followed their every motion closely.

Ha.

Divoa let out a slow breath.

An overwhelming urge rose within him.

To grab those fingers.

To intertwine his own with them.

To press his lips against them.

Or maybe even—bite down.

What would she do then?

Would she scream in shock?

Or would her usually blank face crumble in surprise?

Would those pale cheeks flush red?

Just as his thoughts spiraled deeper—

Click.

Irene undid the first button, loosening the fabric slightly.

Click.

The second button.

Click.

The third.

A portion of Divoa’s chest was now exposed.

“…….”

With each button, Irene’s gaze dropped lower.

Divoa observed her downward-tilted head before shifting his focus back to her fingers.

The way those long fingers worked on the buttons stirred something inside him.

Something dark.

Something greedy.

Something insatiable.

“This is insane.”

“Pardon?”

Irene looked up at him, confused.

She was merely unbuttoning a shirt, yet she appeared so tense.

Her wide eyes reflected only him.

Nothing else.

Just him.

That dark, writhing thing inside him stirred again.

It wanted to rise. To escape.

Divoa slowly shook his head.

“It’s nothing.”

“Okay.”

Irene returned to unbuttoning.

She focused only on the buttons, making sure not to look at his exposed skin.

Finally, the last button was undone.

She quickly withdrew her hands, as if afraid of touching his bare skin.

Then, she hurriedly put her gloves back on.

Click.

Divoa quietly clicked his tongue.

His lingering gaze followed her hands as they disappeared into the gloves once more.

Her hands had been rough and chapped.

Divoa had been staring at them when Irene’s calm voice brought him back to reality.

“Is it your right shoulder or left?”

“…What?”

“The one that hurts.”

“Oh.”

Divoa hummed in thought.

“Probably the right.”

Irene looked doubtful but leaned in to examine his shoulder anyway.

She carefully observed it, pressing her gloved fingers lightly against his skin.

“Does it hurt here?”

“Irene.”

Divoa called her name in a low voice.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze locked on her hands.

Irene flinched and slowly pulled her hand away.

Divoa’s eyes followed her movement.

“Yes?”

“I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

Irene let her hands rest calmly on her lap.

Divoa’s gaze followed them.

“When you cut open a corpse…”

His eyes narrowed slightly as if recalling the scene.

“You don’t wear gloves.”

Irene remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

But Divoa said nothing more.

The heavy silence stretched between them like a winter night.

Eventually, Irene was the one to break it.

“When performing an autopsy, I have to be precise. It requires delicate handling to avoid damaging the organs.”

Divoa propped his chin on one hand and looked up at her.

Irene clenched her fists slightly.

She had understood his unspoken question.

That felt like an achievement.

“That makes sense. Other doctors don’t wear gloves either when performing surgery.”

“Exactly. Gloves dull the precision of my touch. And if they get soaked in blood, they become heavy and clumsy.”

“Hmm.”

Divoa fell into thought, staring at the ceiling.

Doctors and barbers alike worked with bare hands.

But Irene was different from them in one way.

They didn’t wash their hands afterward.

She did.

Too often.

Perhaps that’s why her hands were always dry and chapped.

“And the corpses are already dead.”

“Dead bodies, huh…”

A thought suddenly crossed Divoa’s mind.

“You treated a wounded soldier yesterday, didn’t you?”

Irene nodded indifferently.

“I just stitched up a cut. It was nothing serious.”

“With bare hands?”

“…….”

Irene looked at him for a moment before nodding again.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

Divoa let out a long sigh.

His brows furrowed slightly.

Then, in a voice laced with dissatisfaction, he muttered—

“But they weren’t corpses, were they?”

“…….”

Irene felt like she had been caught in a contradiction.

And Divoa wasn’t done yet.

“Then why are you wearing gloves now?”

“…Excuse me?”

For once, Irene was at a loss for words.

Divoa smiled up at her.

But somehow, it didn’t look like a smile at all.