Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
My routine is so familiar that only the compact design of Mara’s kitchen stops me from believing I am back in my youth, striving to be the “good boy” she wanted me to be when I acted out in rebellion.
I knew what was happening to me wasn’t the norm, but my mother never queried while I misbehaved. She said I was jealous that she paid more attention to my new stepfather than me and that I’d have more than a handful of “minor” injuries to contend with if I ruined the best thing that had ever happened to her.
I’m so deep into wading through the throes of my past that I don’t realize the kettle is whistling loud enough to wake Mara’s neighbors until she leans over me to switch off the gas implement.
I jump when the frilly edge of her dressing gown brushes past my back, and I fucking hate myself for it.
This isn’t about me. It wasn’t back then, and it isn’t now. Not in the slightest.
I put a stop to my self-loathing when Mara whispers, “S-sorry,” before she removes the kettle from the stovetop, fills the mugs, and then fetches the milk from the refrigerator.
“Your hair is wet,” I murmur when the invigorating scent of her shampoo pulls me out of my nightmare. “You’ll catch pneumonia if you let it dry naturally. Let me dry it for you.” My last sentence leaves my mouth before I can stop myself, and it pummels me with shock.
My bewilderment is understandable. The faintest whiff of a feminine product only hours ago gave me hives. Now, I’m convinced one sniff of Mara’s hair could calm the wildest storm.
Mara’s wet hair swishes against her back when she twists to face me. “Um…”
“Please,” I plead, not above begging for the chance to fix my mistakes.
Her eyes dance between mine for several heart-thrashing seconds before she whispers, “O-okay.”
With our teas discarded before they’re touched, Mara helms our walk back to the bathroom for a towel. It dawns on me that her shampoo comes in a range of bathing products when my cock stirs at the scent clinging to the steam of a scorching-hot shower.
“We can go back to the kitchen,” I say when Mara’s hand shakes as she passes me a semi-damp towel. “I don’t mind.”
“He-here is fine.” Her tone is confident despite the shake of her words. “They will keep winning if-if we don’t take the occasional leap of faith.”
With the strength of a tigress, and before I can acknowledge that she said “they,” she turns her back on the only exit and tugs out the elastic keeping her drenched locks hostage.
27
MARA
Air leaves my mouth in a hurry when the faintest creak of the bathroom floor sounds through my ears. I’m not scared. Well, not for me. This is as big a deal for Ark as it is for me. I just have no clue why.
Does he know all the right things to say because he’s dealt with sexual abuse before or because I shared too many secrets while endeavoring to escape the clutches of a predator?
I’m terrified it could be a combination of both, but I can’t hide from the truth any longer. We must be honest if we want any chance of being a “we.”
With Ark’s wide and tormented eyes locked on my reflection in the vanity mirror, he brings the towel to my hair and carefully commences drying it. He sections off pieces and squeezes them with the towel before he scrunches the ends to encourage their natural waves.
It’s clear he’s done this before, and it piques my curiosity to a point I can’t hold back.
“You’ve d-done this before?”
His ghostlike grin frees me from the worry that I’ve made a mistake interrogating him while he’s comforting me.
“I have. Many times.” He shakes his head as if disgusted, but his tone is anything but. “My older sister was extremely demanding when we were younger, and seemingly blind to my assigned gender.” His smile dips. “I dried and brushed her hair every night for years.”
He rolls his eyes as I suspect he did anytime his sister demanded access to his hair-wrangling skills before he switches the towel for a brush. He drags the bristles through the knots his thorough drying caused, his brushstrokes neither painful nor angry.
He’s so deep in thought I assume our conversation is over, so I’m shocked when he says, “I stopped pretty much any type of nurturing when Karolina died. It seemed pointless.” Something in his eyes alters their coloring. They appear more blue now than green. “The reason for her strict shower routine no longer existed, so my skills were no longer needed.” He swallows harshly before he murmurs, “Or so I thought. Riley took up Karolina’s vacancy only a few short years later.”
I have so many questions, tons of them, but my intuition is begging for me to go slow. Since I’m trying to trust it as much as I am the man blocking the only exit of the bathroom with his bulky shoulders, I listen to its pleas.