Page 18 of My Dark Fairy Tale
She smiled again, the shy curve of her mouth making me take an involuntary step into the room to be closer to her.
“I’m sorry about this.” When I rolled my eyes at her, she laughed. “I know you aren’t a fan of apologies, but I’m from Michigan and it’s basically cultural, so don’t get mad at me. I just wanted to say, thank you again. I know I’ve been an awful imposition. But I’m feeling better.” A cough racked her entire frame and then made her wince as it irritated her bruised ribs and side. “I’ll probably be okay to leave tomorrow—”
I held up a hand to stop her, and her mouth snapped shut with an audible click.
“I do not believe I have ever had a woman try so hard to get away from me before,” I mused, and watched a mixture of horror and amusement wash over her expressive face. It was rather entertaining. “Now, stop trying to run away. You are still sick, and having you occupy one of my eight bedrooms in this giant mausoleum is not an inconvenience.I know how much you Americans like to sue. I am really just covering my own ass so you do not come after me for hitting you with my car.”
Her laugh was throaty. “I’m not sure I’d have a case to make, seeing as how I ran out into the road like a madwoman.”
“I have a man on it. On finding this Galasso character,” I informed her.
I had not intended on sharing that, not just because I did not want her to guess at what kind of man would or could “have a man on it” but also because I did not want her to think I was forming some kind of ... attachment to her. I would find thisstronzoso he did not hurt any other woman ever again, not because he had hurt this particular girl. Unfortunately, it was impossible to look at her in that bed, vulnerable and sweet enough to make my damn teeth ache, and not want to offer her something.
A present.
A tribute.
Something of meaning ripped straight out of my skin.
Her pink mouth parted in shock. “Oh. I didn’t ... I mean, to what end? Do you think he’ll still have any of my things?”
No, I thought, but I could make him pay for taking them.
“Forse.” Maybe, I allowed.
“Well, thank you.” She tried to gather her hair again, sucking in a pained breath as she moved to push it out of her face.
“Let me help you,” I offered before I could think it through, moving briskly around the bed to her side.
There was a hairbrush on the marble nightstand and one of my sister’s hair ties Martina must have found for Guinevere in the bathroom. I pushed aside the mountain of pillows from behind her back so I could balance a knee on the bed behind her.
“What are you—?” she started to ask and then shivered when I gathered her wet hair in one hand and laid it down her back.
The tension in her shoulders loosened the moment I passed the brush through the strands, careful of the tangles. The sound of bristles passing through the damp silk and her slightly raspy breath from thelingering cold were the only noises in the entire house. It made the scene oddly intimate even though I meant for it to be perfunctory.
When I started to collect her hair into three parts and braid it, she shifted in surprise.
“You know how to braid?”
“I have three older sisters,” I divulged in answer. “This is the least of the things they taught me.”
She giggled. An honest-to-God, bright, bubbling giggle that passed through my armor like vapor.
“French, Dutch, crown,” I continued, listing the ways my siblings had forced me to plait their hair. “My backup profession could be being a hairdresser.”
She laughed again, softly because it clearly still hurt her. “I’m impressed. Even though it feels odd that the only things I know about you are that you own a literal palace, your first name is Raffa, and you’re very good at braiding.”
I slid a lock of rich brown hair through my fingers as I considered that. She knew nothing about me. Nothing.
How fucking freeing.
“Well, I love my country and consider myself an amateur historian. I like to cook, but I hate to clean up after myself, so I have a cook for when I am too lazy and a cleaner for when I am not. If I do not work out every day, I am abrontolone. A ... grouch, I think the word is. I am allergic to kiwis. And until I met you, I was not very fond of Americans.”
She shivered as my warm breath wafted over her ear. I pretended not to notice, tying off the braid and then getting off the bed to stand beside it.
She lifted a hand gingerly to feel over the braid and offered me that shy, sweet smile like a present she’d wrapped just for me. “Grazie mille, Raffa.”
“Prego. Now, you are probably tired. I will leave you.”
