“Oh, I like it. You’re rocking kind of a Renaissance king look right now. I’m thinking we should go for more urban beardsman. You’ll blend.”But still look wild. Like my editor wants.
I pull out my camera. “We’ll get a before picture.” I say it like it’s some kind of favor, ignoring the sick feeling in my gut as I snap the photo. The Savage Adonis makeover images will sell like nothing else. The public loves before and after. I tell myself these images have potential value, which gives Kiro power.
“I don’t care about blending,” he growls as I pocket my phone.
“You should. There are people after you for whatever reason—deadly people.”
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me,” he says casually.
My mouth goes dry. The atmosphere feels too charged, too full of dark possibility.
I continue to comb out his hair. This is a man who was caged, imprisoned, strapped to a bed by people. Maybe it’s foolish to get so comfortable with him.
“I frightened you,” he says.
How does he know? Does he hear my fucking heartbeat? Does he scent my fear in some way? “I’ll tell you if there’s a problem with us.”
He nods.
“We just have to make sure they don’t find us. We need to not be obvious. The best offense is a defense, which means we get proper clothes and camping gear. Without turning it into a circus.”
He scowls.
I arrange his rich dark locks over his shoulder. Did I hurt his feelings? I realize suddenly that it was probably the circus reference. A place to display animals. Strange acts. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He meets my eyes. Since his escape—since I realized just howtherehe was—I’ve started to think sometimes that he hates me.
I swallow and continue to comb out his hair, and then I start on his beard. I snip slowly, carefully, heart pounding. I try to keep my touch clinical, the way they train you to do in nursing school.
The heat that comes off him is dizzying, though. Sometimes I’m not sure whether it’s heat—maybe it’s just sensation. Awareness.
Every time I brush his neck or his bare shoulders, this wild electricity blooms up, as if the surfaces of our skin carry opposite charges. From the way his breathing changes, I think he feels it, too.
I can even feel the sweep of his gaze on my skin. This wild, wrong thing between us has too much energy for this tiny space. His lips are inches from my breasts.
Finally he speaks. “The best offense is adefense?”
I straighten. “You don’t agree?”
He gazes over at the tub, handsome face dark with disdain. “The best offense is a better offense,” he growls.
I stifle a smile, loving that he said that. How oddly smart it is. I move around him, stroking and snipping.
Eventually he closes his eyes, and I think maybe he’s finally relaxing. Has anybody in his miserable life ever tended to him out of affection?
I trim the underside of his beard, trying to avoid touching his thick, corded neck. The neck of a beast.
Hellbeast, Donny called him.
I flash on the way he carried me out of that place. The way he saved me from Donny. The way he pinned me to the wall. My heart feels thundery.
You can’t have him.
I concentrate on getting his beard trimmed evenly.
Sometimes he watches my throat. I feel weirdly vulnerable to him when he watches my throat like that. Like he could have anything from me.
Stroke. Clip. Don’t meet his eyes.