For a split second, I cringe at the thought of whether my braids survived the journey. My hair probably looks like a rat’s nest right about now.
He shakes his head once he takes his own helmet off, whipping the soft strands of raven-black hair across his forehead. Mickey hardly ever styles it, so some tufts stick up at odd angles to give him even more of a rugged appeal.
My eyes glue to his broad shoulders, trying to stop my shame from showing on my skin. He’s so lethally handsome. I don’t know how anyone can breathe around him.
“It’s cute,” he says, stroking my braids. “I like it.”
Five words. That’s all it takes to make the tension in my muscles relax to the point I almost become a weightless feather in the wind.
I tried extra hard to do my hair this morning—not that I don’t do that every other morning, but today is special. My crazy, thick hair is one of the things Mamá and I had in common. Every day she would plait her long dark hair into two French braids, then turn to me and do the most elaborate hairstyles.
She was obsessed with turning me into her own personal Minnie Mouse, giving me space buns or crazy pigtails with gigantic ribbons.
“Here,” Mickey says softly, gently turning me around. “Let me.”
Roman has many faces. Most of them, he never shows to the outside world. This side of him? It’s all for me. The one that evens my pigtails, fixes the many braids I’ve done, and reties the ribbon so it’s perfect. Cassie might see him elbows deep in an engine, but she’ll never get to experience this part of him. She’ll never know how it feels to have her heart swell with each tug, and her eyes will never well with unshed tears.
He’ll never truly understand how priceless that gift is.
I smile to myself, remembering all the times I’ve walked out of the house with my hair down as he gawks at me like I’m a whole other person. Every time, he’d pull out a comb and get to work on my hair. Each move of his hand is always practiced and precise, and he’s careful not to pull too hard or tie things too tightly.
Some kids give us weird looks as they pass, but most don’t bat an eye because they’ve seen this very scene enough times; me, gnawing on my lip while Mickey scowls at the back of my head like he’s been personally victimized by my hair.
Simply put, he looks murderous every time he fixes my hair, like he hates it. Yet, every day he does it, and every morning, no one dares to say a word about it—other than Maxim and Mikhail, but Roman doesn’t need to know that.
Mickey grips me by the elbow and turns me around, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger as he gazes down at me. Warmth spreads to every inch of my body when our eyes meet.
This is what being loved feels like.
I sink my nails into the palms of my hands because one day, I’ll stop feeling this way. I’ll no longer know what adoration looks like. He’ll do someone else’s hair and call someone else beautiful. I want to bottle this moment up, lock it away, and keep it for myself because the feeling is intoxicating. But the sad truth is that, even if I’m meant to be loved, it will never be permanent.
“You’re so beautiful, Bella.”
He means it. Every letter and every syllable. Those four words are said from the darkest depths of his heart, not just the dopamine fired in his brain.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I’ll never say that I agree. Maybe I am beautiful—even though I've never seen myself that way—or maybe I'm not. Beauty isn’t just something you put on or become blessed with from genetics. It’s a feeling that doesn’t need a mirror or a photo for proof or validation. And Mickey makes me feel beautiful, even on days when I’m disgusted with myself.
The school’s warning bell rings through the street, and I can almost hear the collective sigh of every student in the area.
“I’ve got to go… I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, hopeful.
The answer is always yes, but one day it’ll be no. I’d rather be prepared and face the anguish now than look like an idiot, standing around waiting for him.
He smirks. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Once he plants another kiss on my forehead, he grabs his helmet. My cheeks burn, and so does the spot where his lips touched. I’m too dumbstruck to do anything but stare at him.
“Don’t be late.” He winks.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod helplessly, backing away toward another one of my versions of hell.
Chapter 9
ISABELLA
3YearsAgo
Roman: 19 years old – Isabella: 17 years old.
