“Tell me if I hurt you.” His voice carried the kind of weight that made even a murmur feel like a command.
The first gentle stroke of the brush made Newt’s eyes flutter closed. Vaughn moved with careful precision, working from the ends up, each pass of the brush sending little tingles across Newt’s scalp.
Which was better than pine needles scraping it.
“So,” Vaughn said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, “why the rush to get home?”
Newt tensed slightly. The question seemed innocent enough, but answering truthfully meant admitting he was Unseelie, admitting to the arranged marriage waiting for him, admitting that staying here, with his mate, was impossible.
“No rush, really,” he lied, hating how easily the words came. “Just don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“You’re not.” The brush paused. “Overstaying.”
Newt swallowed hard. “Your friends seemed nice. The short ones. Preston and…?”
“Jalen,” Vaughn supplied, taking the conversational bait. “They’re mates to other pack members.”
“Like how you and I are—” Newt cut himself off, cursing his runaway mouth.
The brush stilled completely. “You feel it too.”
It wasn’t a question. Newt nodded, not trusting his voice.
Vaughn resumed brushing, each stroke more deliberate than before. “That complicates things.”
“Story of my life.” Newt gave a weak laugh. “I excel at complications. It’s my superpower, along with knocking into light fixtures and giving a spectacular light show.”
Vaughn’s free hand came to rest lightly on Newt’s shoulder, warm and steady. The touch felt like an anchor in a storm hopelessly raging inside him.
“Your magic,” Vaughn said. “Is that why you were glowing pink?”
Newt winced. “Yeah. Panic makes it go a bit haywire. Usually I’m much better at…” He trailed off, realizing he was about to lie again. Truth was his magic had always been unpredictable. Another disappointment to add to his father’s list. Newt comforted himself by constantly making excuses, even to himself, whenever it didn’t go right, which was nearly every time.
“At?” Vaughn prompted.
“At not turning into a nightlight,” Newt finished lamely.
Strong fingers brushed against the nape of Newt’s neck as another section of hair was gathered. The casual touch had him fighting the urge to lean back into it.
“The pink looked beautiful on you,” Vaughn said.
“You might be the only one who thinks so.” Newt stared down at his hands. “Back home, unexpected magic isn’t exactly celebrated.”
It was mocked by those who’d been properly educated in magic. The upper class, which Newt was not. Because of his lowborn status, he’d been denied a proper education. Not just with magic, either. He was mostly self-taught, preferring life as his classroom instead of four walls.
But that left him lacking in so many ways, which his father never failed to remind him of. No matter how hard Newt tried, it was never good enough.
“What is celebrated back home?”
Following rules. Maintaining appearances. Making advantageous marriages for selfish gains. All the things Newt was spectacularly failing at by sitting here with his mate’s hands in his hair.
“Conformity,” he answered simply. Allowing other people to run my life.
Vaughn made a noncommittal sound, the brush moving in long, soothing strokes now that the tangles were gone. “Sounds stifling.”
“It is.”
Their eyes met in the dresser mirror across the room. Something passed between them in that reflection—understanding, maybe. Recognition of shared pain, though Newt couldn’t begin to guess what haunted Vaughn’s eyes or made his hands tremble. He seemed like the type who didn’t put up with anyone’s bullpoop. Like he could take on the world with one eye closed while wondering what was for dinner.
