Once my penis has calmed a little, I pick up the dress I chose for her and hold it out in front of me. Lifting it carefully over her wet hair, I wait for her to push her arms through the sleeves, then carefully fasten each tiny button that secures the back, one by one. When I finish the last one, I pick up the white thigh-high socks I selected and slide the first one over her toes. Smoothing the fabric up her leg, I run my fingers around the elastic on her thigh to ensure it fits correctly. I repeat the action with the other sock, and once they’re both in place, I hold out black shiny shoes for her to step into, kneeling down to fasten the straps.
Climbing back to my feet, I take her hand and lead her into the bathroom, positioning her in front of the mirror as I blow-dry her hair, then style it into two pigtails, one high on each side of her head, completing the look by tying ribbons into bows on each bunch.
Instead of the dirty, tired waif who opened the door to me, the woman standing in front of me finally looks like herself. “There you are,” I breathe.
She hasn’t uttered a word since I lifted her from the tub and dressed her. Her face has shown a myriad of emotions, but as I stand behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror ahead of us, I watch as tears fill her eyes and spill from beneath her lashes, rolling down her cheeks as her lips tremble.
“Myperfect doll,” I say, cupping her cheeks as I slowly turn her to face me.
Shaking her head, she starts to deny my words, but I take her chin between my finger and thumb firmly, but gently, preventing her from moving.
“Myperfect doll,” I repeat.
Sucking in a shaky breath, she tries to blink away her tears, but three more escape before she nods, finally accepting my words.
“You’re perfect,” I tell her, succumbing to an alien desire to lean forward and capture her tears with my tongue. The drops are salty against my taste buds, but I swallow them down, unwilling to give anything of her away, even if it is just to the air.
She looks shocked when I pull back, but she doesn’t speak.
“You can teach me to do your makeup,” I tell her.
“Teach you?” she questions.
“So I can do it for you.”
Blinking, she looks up at me, like I’ve just spoken a foreign language. “Why?”
“So I can do it for you,” I tell her again.
My smartwatch buzzes against my wrist, and I let my gaze move from her to look at it. “We need to hurry.”
“Hurry?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
“I’m taking you home,” I remind her, starting to feel concern about how many times I’m having to remind her of what I’ve already said.
“Oh,” she says, blinking confusedly, but instead of arguing or asking any more questions, she turns to the mirror and appliesmakeup until her skin looks as perfect as the porcelain doll she reminds me of. She’s beautiful, with or without the makeup, but with the dark liner ringing her eyes, she looks most like the mate I claimed at first sight.
The moment she returns the last tube of makeup to the bag on the bathroom counter, the tension I’d been experiencing since she opened the door starts to recede. I don’t fully understand—or care—what emotion it is I’ve been feeling for the last hour, but I recognize that seeing her dressed in clothes I’ve selected for her, with her hair done, and her familiar makeup in place has calmed me.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, lifting my hand to tug on the end of one of her pigtails.
Tilting her head to the side, her gaze turns quizzical as she stares at herself in the mirror, like she’s not entirely sure what she’s looking at. “Am I?” she asks, more to herself than to me.
“Yes, Doll. Beautiful.”
“Even dressed like this? Like…” She scoffs self-deprecatingly. “Like a whacked-out goth Barbie?”
“Who the fuck said that to you?” I growl, newly recognizable anger mounting inside of me for the second time today.
Her exhale is full of sadness, but instead of answering my question, she says, “Why are you here, Knight? We barely know each other.”
“I already told you. I’m taking you home.”
“Home?” she questions.
“To Rockhead Point.”
“Is that home?” she asks, like she’s begging to know the answer. “Rapid City was my home. It’s been my home for years. I agreed to move because Betty needed my help setting up the studio, and so Etta and I could live together. But Mountain Ink is open, and the studio’s thriving without me. Etta’s living withOz. She’s married and pregnant. So why am I moving? What’s in Rockhead Point for me now?”
