Page 23 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I leap from bed and intercept him, slotting myself between his hulking body and the door. He backs up, practically recoiling in his haste to get away from me.
My fingers flex at my sides, the tips tingling. What a strange feeling, to wield power over a man like this. He’s tall and broad and solid, the proportions of his body alien beside mine, yet when I step toward him, his entire frame tenses as if to ward off my next move.
I sidle yet another step closer.
“What’re you doing?” he says, his voice low and rasping.
Fortuna. I’m probably evil for doing this. For plotting.
But Jack will benefit from us touching just as much as I will. He can ride off into the sunset, curse-free, and I’ll returnto Pine’s End Markless and magicless. Weston will have no reason to refuse me, then. I’ll find out if any part of him has ever considered the idea of us.
I smile up at Jack. “Actually, I do need your help with something.”
He swallows audibly. “With what, exactly?”
“My hair. It needs to be brushed and braided.”
Silence pools between us. Again, I can’t see his face, and I wonder if this is why he insisted on evenings—so he could hide from me, like he did yesterday.
“It’s not like I can do it myself,” I say. It’s half true—Minnie always attended to my hair. Truth be told, I could probably manage on my own, but that’s not the point. “If I let it go, it’ll get all tangly and hopeless and I’ll have to cut it off.”
He flinches, like the idea of that pains him. An eternity slides past as he considers.
“It’s just my hair,” I add. “And you have gloves on.”
“Fine,” he finally says.
My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, walling off the whoop that gathers in my throat. This will give us a chance to talk. To touch. Sort of.
“Great.” I force my voice even. “Thank you.”
He shifts his weight. “Where...?”
“Over by the fire.”
He nods, or I think he does. The flames have died back, and it’s hard to tell amid all these shadows.
I feel my way through the dimness and find my trunk, where I rummage for my sterling silver hairbrush. The thing is edged in gold and utterly ridiculous—plain wood would’ve worked just as well—but it’s all I have.
At the fire, I toss on a few logs. Light leaps when the woodcatches. Jack keeps to the shadows, as if waiting for me to turn my back before emerging into the light.
I shrug at his reticence, then settle on the floor in front of the paisley armchair that faces the fire. I wait. And wait.
Finally, heavy footfalls approach. The chair groans when Jack lowers his considerable weight. His black-clad knees appear in the edges of my vision, bracketing my body. I hold up the brush without glancing back.
He takes it, but doesn’t seem to know where to start.
“You do know how to braid, right?” I prompt.
A pause. “In theory. But I’ve never actually done it before.”
“Really? You’ve never had a woman ask? Never done it for one of your lovers?”
He makes a soft, strangled sound. I’m probably not supposed to bring up things like that so casually, but honestly, we’re both adults. And this is nothing compared to the book I spent the day immersed in.
“No,” he says. “The truth is, I always get away from them as quickly as possible. After I... Well. After.”
I go still. Of course. He wouldn’t want to stick around and burden anyone with his luck. He wouldn’t want them catching the flu in August and nearly dying, just because they spent time in his proximity.
