Page 70 of Chaos

Whirling around with a hand pressed over my racing heart, I scowl at the unexpected intruder. “You scared the fuck out me.”

Lounging in the open doorway like he’s been there a while, the man who brought me breakfast-in-bed two mornings in a row smiles. Kind of. It’s a little squinty, a little dazed, a little… not Finn. His voice is the same, a catch to it when he quips, “Quite the show.”

Snorting, I choose to blame exertion for the heat flushing my cheeks. “Should I charge you for entry?”

“Hope this is enough,” he says as he strides inside and tosses me something that I catch mid-air, hiding a strained wince. “‘Cause it’s all I got.”

I follow him into the kitchen, propping my hip against the counter as I peel back the deli paper hiding a stacked sandwich. “Hm.” I chew slowly on a bite, acting like my rumbling stomach wouldn’t accept a bowl of fucking gruel. “Guess it’ll do.”

That odd smile twitches.

Before I can ask what the hell is wrong with him, he remarks, “Your hair’s down.”

“Wow.” I twirl a loose lock around my finger, irritated by the reminder that I couldn’t even do my own damn hair this morning. “You are the pinnacle of observance.”

“It’s never down.”

I shrug, which makes me wince—which makes Finn nod and sayahhh, all knowing and annoying and shit. “You can’t lift your arms, can you?”

My pesky, tight shoulder blades throb at the mere accusation. “Can so.”

It just hurts like a bitch. Hence why I’ve barely eaten today—all the good shit’s stashed away in the upper cabinets.

Pointing an index finger to the ceiling, Finn gives it a twirl. “Lemme see.”

Though I huff, I turn around. As I do, I recognize the cloudy glass bottle he slips out of his pocket, damn near whimpering with relief as I eagerly,awkwardly, whip my hoodie over my head, leaving me in pajama shorts and a matching tank. “You really like me stripping for you, huh?”

A familiar, medicinal scent tainting the air, calloused fingers lightly trace the outline of the bruise that turned a slightly terrifying shade of dark purple overnight. “You don’t need much encouragement.”

I glance over my shoulder, crooking a brow. “You calling me easy?”

“Don’t think anyone would call youeasy, princess.”

I bark a laugh. Can’t exactly disagree with that, can I?

Fingers pinching the base of my neck redirect my head forward, and then they’re moving downward, sweeping my hair over one shoulder. Braced for the contact, I don’t bristle when he starts smoothing ointment across my back. In fact, the opposite happens—with a quiet sigh, my shoulders drop, every pass wiping a little more tension away. I’m actually disappointed when he stops, but both the emotion and the retreat are fleeting.

As those fingers thread through my hair, I shiver. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing as good as one of your fancy hairstyles.”

I half-turn to frown up at him. “You’re doing my hair?”

Finn hums and gently turns me around again.

Again, I twist to the side, still frowning. “Why?”

Kissing his teeth, he redirects me once more, holding me in place for a minute this time to really make his point. “Stop moving or I’m doing something really ugly.”

I still. Try not to fidget. Try not to fucking moan as fingernails scrape my scalp. “Is this another friendly thing?”

“Very good,” Finn croons, toeing the line between condescension and praise. “You’re learning.”

“Does that make you my teacher?” I lean back until my eyes find his. “Should I call yousir?”

Lips pursed, he yanks on the braid quick fingers deftly fashion. Declining to respond, I hear the rustle of denim as he reaches into his pocket, and an accusatory noise leaves me when he dangles a suspiciously familiar length of red ribbon over my face. “Do your employers know you’re such a dirty little thief?”

“Hm.” My scalp pulls as he secures the end of the braid, eyes still locked on mine. “Call mesiragain. That was nicer.”

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