And in the box were other crafty things.
Like super glue.
Little Miss Annoying had super-glued my mouse to the desk, as well as all the keys on my laptop too.Fuuuck!
14
Nelle
The bathroom door opened, and a burst of steam curled out as Graysen entered our rooms, drying his wet hair with a towel. I’d learned over the past few days that Graysen liked long showers, really long showers, spending time luxuriating under the rainfall of water. The man spent more time in the bathroom than I did. Which suited me perfectly this morning.
Despite the shower, he looked worn out and exhausted. His jaw was more than just shadowed with stubble, already edging toward a beard.
“Good morning, dickface,” I cheerfully greeted him.
“Wychthorn,” he replied in a gruff voice as he stalked past, not even looking my way.
His skin glowed with the after-effects of the shower, its golden-bronze hue a striking contrast to the plain white t-shirt and dark denim hugging his muscular body.
He neatly folded the towel over the back of a dining chair, arched his spine, and raked his hands through his damp hair,finger-combing the locks. Barefoot, he padded to the kitchen to fill a tall glass with water before heading to his work desk. After he placed the drink down, my gaze sharpened on how he adjusted its position with small, exact nudges until the glass sat dead-center on the square wooden coaster.
He flopped onto the rollaway chair, and when he glanced at the laptop I’d super-glued last night, he gave a long, weary sigh. Pulling a drawer open, he retrieved a pen and notepad and hunched over his desk, his back to me.
I walked mindlessly around the room. Bright morning sunshine poured inside, warming my bare skin, and I savored the delicious taste of the croissant filled with strawberry jam. I’d taken to eating them every breakfast, freshly baked by the kitchen servants and delivered by Penn, piping hot. Their flaky pastry was perfect for the cruelty I was inflicting on Graysen. I drifted about, bored, and purposely dropped flakes onto the floor, leaving behind a trail of pastry crumbs.
This morning I’d woken up and found outside my bedroom door a box filled with a variety of toys for my wraith-wolf—ropes to tug on, rubbery sticks, and tennis balls. I refused to think about how kind the offer was for Sage. Instead, I used the gift to my advantage and played fetch with Sage while I ate. I kicked a tennis ball, and the enormous wraith-wolf bounded about, crashing into furniture to get to the toy like an excited puppy.
Graysen’s shoulders tightened as Sage knocked into the coffee table and shunted it forward as he whined and pawed at the ball beneath it.
Graysen, like me, was growing more agitated with the situation of sharing a space with one another. Psychological warfare was the only thing left for me. After I attacked him with my keenly sharpened spoons, they’d been exchanged for plastic,like a godsdamned prisoner, as had the rest of my cutlery.
He was also, curiously, a neat freak and a little compulsive with symmetry. I’d been testing my theory for the last few days. In the past year, when we’d been obligated to spend time together, I hadn’t really paid much attention, but now I strove to unearth memories of him. There were scratchy impressions of him aligning cutlery and crystal tumblers. And now, stuck with him here, it was obvious how fastidious he was in his personal domain.
I’d gone through everything in his rooms, trying to learn something more about the man who held me locked away like a prized possession. The cupboard where he kept his extensive collection of board games and where I found his old arts and crafts box a few days past was perfectly arranged by box size. The tallboy contained tidily organized t-shirts and jeans. Everything remained neat and orderly, including the drawer which contained his knickknacks, coins, seashells, and other odd things he collected, and the origami he’d folded carefully into little animals and birds, lots of tiny paper birds, roosting or wings spread wide in mid-flight.
He divided the space dedicated to his library of books into fiction and non-fiction, and then into subject matter and author order. Even his car and motorbike magazines were lined up in date sequence. I was surprised he hadn’t gone as far as incorporating the Dewey Decimal System into his personal library.
And what’s more, his clothes were color-coordinated.
Color. Coordinated.
And that was saying something for someone who only wore white, gray, and black, with the odd smattering of navy.
On the makeshift wardrobe, his white dress shirts lined up according to their specific shade of white, like a color chart in a paint shop.Crisp white, snow, milk, porcelain, mother-of-pearl, ivory…
Ridiculous.
Every morning and evening I intentionally shifted my cleansers, moisturizers, and serums about the vanity, leaving them in a disorganized mess, and afterward, when I re-entered the bathroom, I’d find them neatly lined up in order of height and spaced evenly apart.
Earlier this morning, I’d found them arranged in use order as if Graysen watched and studied and learned.
He couldn’t help himself.
Traits that might be adorably cute on a ruthless man who crushed dangerous men, if I, in turn, didn’t want to smother him with a pillow. I was waiting for him to fall prey to his insomnia and then—Good night, Graysen Crowther!
I rubbed the pad of my thumb across my fingers, freeing them from the croissant pastry. Flakes scattered on the carpet, and I enjoyed seeing Graysen tense even further, as if he could hear every strike of pastry hitting the floor. He was so on edge his shoulders were almost up to his ears as he hunched over the desk, scribbling away on his notepad.
“What are you working on?” I asked, not because I was inquisitive, but wanting to annoy him further.
