Page 65 of Claimed
Together, we made Sundays our hair days.
They taught me how to properly wash, condition, and detangle my curls.
They taught me how to accept myself.
How to love me. . .exactly the way I was.
This one friend, Joanne took great patience in showing me how to twist my hair into chunky sections to let them air dry overnight. It was soothing, grounding—a routine passed down from her mother, her grandmother, and even further back than she could remember.
And boy was it hard to not be so jealous of that.
But I remained thankful for her friendship, and we still remained in contact. Granted, she was now off in Paris, dancing.
Now as an adult and without fail, every Sunday, I would spread out all my products on the bathroom counter—my leave-in conditioner, curling creams, detangling spray, and oils.
The process of washing my hair was long, sometimes frustrating, but it was mine.
I’d work through each section, detangling slowly with my wide-tooth comb, taking care not to tug too hard on the fragile curls.
After hours of work, my hair would spring back into its thick, voluminous coils, soft and bouncy.
And I would just feel. . .proud of myself. . .and gratitude for who I was and how I looked.
But forthisperformance, the one where I became the Vampire Queen, I’d chosen a different route. I’d straightened my hair and slicked it back into a tight, almost severe bun, giving my look an edge that I thought fit the character.
It had taken hours to get it right—straightening my 4c curls was never a quick process—but once it was done, it was set.
My fingers instinctively moved to touch the tight bun at the back of my head, feeling the smooth, sleek strands.
Earlier the hairstylist had carefully taken a few strands out on the side and curled them.
The last thing I wanted for my hair now was for it to frizz up or lose its shape. I hadn’t planned on washing it for another fewdays, maybe even until next Sunday, when I’d take it down and let my curls breathe again.
But more important and back to the real matter. . .how did Gianni know any of this?
I glanced back at the products again, feeling both comforted and unnerved by their presence. Here it all was, laid out before me as if to say, “I know you, Queen. I really know you.”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
He’s going to have to give me answers.
The steam from the shower was starting to fill the room, beckoning me to step inside, but my mind was still racing. I wasn’t ready to deal with the implications of how Gianni knew so much about me.
Not yet.
Right now, I just needed to wash away the remnants of this day without ruining my hair in the process.
I placed the satin shower cap over my head, tucking in the last bits of my bun, making sure not a single strand was exposed.
I have so many questions. So many. . .
Chapter twelve
The Power of Blood
I took a quick shower. The steam from the hot water filled the small space, fogging up the mirror and making the tiles on the walls glisten.
Droplets of water clung to my skin.
