Page 36 of Addicted
I swallow hard, my new panties effectively ruined with dampness. I might as well not fucking bother.
“Where are we going?” I ask, blinking when he takes my hand and leads me to the desk which sits against one wall. It’s covered in pages of artwork, more tacked onto the wall behind it, spreading out like a spill of ink. Apt given that this is Jude’s room after all.
Placing his hands on my shoulders, he gently pushes down until my ass hits the leather stool that sits in front of the desk, and then swivels me around until I’m facing the stunning artwork.
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his next move, jerking slightly when I feel a brush being pulled through my wet hair.
“Calm down,Azizam. It’s just a brush,” he soothes, the smooth cadence of his voice relaxing my bunched shoulders. I’m just not used to soft touches, but something tells me that these Tailor boys are going to make me get used to the feel of them. I do just that, my limbs loosening as I get lost in the rhythm of the strokes as he guides the brush through my hair. It hits me when I remember my mom used to do this, brush my hair, and my vision blurs, the artwork before me bleeding as my heart aches.
I frown when he stops, and then an embarrassing moan escapes my lips when his firm fingers dig into my scalp,massaging some sweet-smelling product in and chasing the lingering sadness away.
“That feels amazing, Tarl,” I groan on an exhale as he hits an especially sore spot.
After a few minutes, his hands leave my head to be replaced by the brush once more. I study the art before me, seeing Jude’s signature expressive style all over it, the lines like my tattoo. The designs are hauntingly beautiful; moths with skulls on their bodies, little girls with the shadows of monsters, and faceless women with stars for hair.
Tarl’s fingers suddenly grip my hair, and I gawp when I realize that he’s braiding it.
“Where on earth did you learn how to braid hair, Tarl?”
He chuckles.
“I was not born here, Little Bird,” he tells me, and his voice reminds me of a time when storytellers wove magic in the air with their tales. “Adam Taylor found me on the streets of Tehran, the capital city of Iran, homeless and without parents. He took pity on me, and bought me back here, to live with, and serve his son.” He reaches to the end of my braid, then uses a hair tie at his wrist to tie it off. It’s light pink, the same color as my shirt. “But before I became homeless, I had sisters, and I would help my mother to braid their hair.”
He swivels the stool around, and I gaze up into his eyes; one the blue of a summer sky and the other the green of a sage plant.
“What happened to them? Your sisters? Your family?”
His whole face changes, going hard and shuttered, and the pain that he’s not quick enough to hide brightens his eyes, making the colors pulse.
“They were killed.”
He goes to turn away, but I reach for his wrist, holding it as the brush dangles from his hand. Turning back, he looks down at me, his expression a blankness that screams of loss.
“Then we have something in common.”
His chest rises and his whole face softens before his other hand comes up to stroke my cheek.
“I wish it was something other than the death of loved ones, Pretty Bird,” he tells me, and there’s no hint of a lie in his tone. He means it, and it leaves my stomach churning with uncertainty about how we reached this point between us. Are we still enemies? “Let’s go.”
He removes his hand from my cheek, holding it out for me to take, and ignoring the confusion that wraps around me. I take it, letting him lead me from the room and down the stairs.
When did I start to trust the Tailor boys?
The guys usher me into an enormous truck, all black and monstrous-looking, and I have to basically climb into the back like a mountain goat. It takes about forty minutes to get to our destination, and I press my face to the blacked-out back window, drinking in the way the cityscape turns into countryside. It’s so green, and with the mountains in the distance and the summer sunshine bathing the landscape with its glow, I’m awestruck by its majesty.
“Never left the city before?” Jude asks, his hand massaging the back of my neck, sending tingles racing across my skin and threatening to distract me from my staring. I briefly turn my head to look into his deep blue eyes, but there’s no teasing there, his softened voice and raised brows letting me know he means no offense.
“Mom took Rook and I to the Grand Lake beach once, maybe twice when we could sneak away, like the time I told you about,” I tell him, remembering the feel of the sand between my toesand the sound of the waves lapping at the shore. I mean, it wasn’t the sea or anything, but as a kid, it always amazed me, the vast body of water that was Grand Lake. I suck in my lower lip, remembering the punishment she received at the hands of my father both times upon our return. After the second time, I begged not to go again.
“Why the frown, Nightingale?”
Blinking, I see his eyes once more, the blue not dissimilar to the bruises that decorated Mom’s skin so often. Too fucking often.
“Rufus punished her for taking us away. Any time we did something fun, she’d be beaten and be limping for days afterwards,” I tell him, watching as his eyes narrow, his brows drawing down.
“Your father is a wicked man, Nightingale.”
“I know.”
