Page 23 of Hair, She Bears
“It can’t be finer than yours.”
“It’s not,” he grinned. “But mine doesn’t have you in it.”
He snagged the quilt and the small sack from the sofa, crossed the room in three steps, and dashed up the staircase. After spreading out the quilt, he set her in the center of the bed, dropped the sack on the floorboards, and spun around. Dragging her hair up the steps, he wound it around his arm and piled the golden mass on the floor at the foot of the bed.
“Before I’m distracted, is there anything else you remember about your parents like their last name?” he asked, glancing over at her.
“No.” She chewed on her lip. Should she tell him? It was a nagging suspicion, one that had bothered her for years. “My name isn’t Zenna.”
Malik frowned. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, but I feel in my heart that Zenna is wrong. My name began with an ‘R’”
“My father is an intelligent man. Changing your name would help hide you, especially if your parents were looking for you.” Malik pulled the curtain across the opening, plunging them into semi-darkness. The light from the fireplace danced across the ceiling, painting exotic shapes over the loft. “What about sounds or smells?”
Zenna squeezed her eyes shut. “Water. I could hear water through my bedroom window.”
“Rushing water or crashing waves?”
“I don’t know the difference.”
“Don’t be ashamed.” His hand covered hers, and her eyes flew open. “I can work with what you gave me. It may take a while, but it’s not hopeless.”
Removing his shirt, he tossed it toward the end of the bed. The flickering firelight emphasized the muscles on his broad chest and danced over his muscular arms, highlighting a thick black band of thorns tattooed around his bicep. Zenna’s reply stuck in her throat. Reaching out, she touched one tentative finger to a faint line carving its way across his abdomen. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingernail scratched along the scar.
“What happened?”
“I don’t always make the best choices.” Malik gave her a wry grin. “I deserved that one.”
“And the person who did this to you?”
“He’s no longer alive.”
She gulped, her eyes widening.
“I make no apologies for what I’ve done. My past is part of who I am,” he said.
“But Votras Alute doesn’t leave scars. Why do you have one?”
“I didn’t use it,” he replied, a slight note of pride in his statement. “I refused treatment.”
“You could have died.” She traced the scar.
“I wanted to… I deserve to...” He grabbed her hand, stilling her fingers. “I am not a good man.”
“I’ve heard about your reputation.”
“What do you know?” She shrank away from his growl, but his grip tightened, pinning her hand flat against his chest.
“When the wind blows in from the north, the breeze brings the men’s voices into the tower.” She gestured toward the curtain. “I usually can block them out… but sometimes, I listen.”
“What do they say about me?”
“That you are unbending,”—Malik’s mouth twitched as if he were pleased by the description—“and you have a lot of women.”
“That’s all?”
Snatches of conversations swirled in her mind, stories of torture and death. Malik’s cruelty was well-known—and often spoke of—by Mother’s crew, some in awe, others in terror.
