Page 79 of The Black Table
That makes her smile. And it feels nice to make her smile.
Except it’s not just that.
It’s…her.
I’m just doing what Kingston asked. Ordered. Get her here, so we can protect her.
But she’s not some scared, shy little thing. She’s not little at all, actually, maybe five-eight or five-nine. It’s more that…compared to us, our stuff, she almostlookssmall, in the space of one of these high-ceilinged rooms. Delicate among all the sturdy masculinity.
And that’s…different.
Powerful, in its own kind of way.
Gwenna’s back at the closet. She lifts a blouse by its hanger, surveys it. Replaces it. Takes out another.
“You don’t like it?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that.” She says it without looking at me, turning her attention to the shoes. Picks up a boot, studies it: black, leather, thick soles and buckles. Good for a New England winter. “More practical than what Kai got me, that’s for sure.”
She drops it to the floor, starts to ease in the toe of her left foot, but winces and stops.
Without thinking, I step to her side, offer her an arm. She looks up at me, quizzical.
“I thought…you were losing your balance,” I manage.
She laughs a little, tucks hair behind her ear. “I’m stable. Physically.” But she still clasps my forearm, steadies herself as shelowers her body to sit on the desk chair. With her settled, I instinctively duck down to retrieve her shoe, dropping to one knee to reach for it.
“Thanks,” she says, and it’s only once I follow her gaze that I realize I’m still holding the boot, still kneeling at the foot of her chair. Another little smile. “You…planning to help me with that?”
She’s kidding—I’m pretty sure she’s kidding. But when I look up, I almost lose my balance, even kneeling.
Because she’s watching me. Not like Lanz. Not with hunger.
With expectation.
“Well?” she asks. Calm. Measured.
Like she knows I’ll obey.
And the worst part is…
She’s right.
“Sure.” I nod.
Just to be helpful. Just to be efficient.
Just—
My fingers tremble as I undo the buckles, tug at the zipper, my throat is dry. Her foot—bare, delicate, pale—is warm under my palm as I ease it into the shoe, her ankle lightly shaded with bruise. I can smell the clean edge of her soap, maybe even her skin, and I’m so worried I’m hurting her, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. As if I’m just…supposed to be here.
Kneeling.
Touching.
Serving her.
God.
