“I must look awful,” I mumbled. I stared at the floor as I walked over to my trunk. I opened the lid and dug through my clothes formy comb.
I cried out as one of the tines of the comb pricked my finger. I ignored the bead of blood on my fingertip and raked through the tangles, pretending Riyan was noteven there.
“I can do that for you,”Riyan said.
I looked up from my tangles. Riyan’s eyes were soft in the candlelight and the corners of his mouth flicked up in atiny smile.
“You would comb my hair?”I asked.
“You mended my shirt, didn’t you?”he replied.
Riyan gestured to the chair at the writing desk. I hesitated at first, but sat in the chair. I had nothing to beafraid of.
He snuffed out his candle and I tentatively placed my comb in his outstretched hand. The floorboards groaned behind me as hesat down.
He started with the ends of my hair. A chill crept up my spine as the tines of the comb gently grazedmy back.
My voice came out shakier than I wanted. “For someone who does not have a lot of hair, you can combquite well.”
“I used to comb Mother’s hair when I was a boy.” His warm breath caressed my shoulders and my hands curled into fists inmy lap.
I let out a breath and released my grip. “D-did you hear you are going tosee her?”
“I did.”
His breath warmed me again. I swallowed as my heart pounded. “Are you excited? Your grandmother told me you have not seen her intwelve years.”
“That’snot true.”
I blinked. Before I could ask, Riyan spoke again. “I went to see her last night. She was asleep, but I still got to see her. She has gotten somuch smaller.”
“Is she really smaller?” I asked. “Or are youjust bigger?”
Riyan did not respond. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say—my silver tongue was losing its shine.
Maybe I could mend things. I rested my hands against my belly and let out a breath. “I am not afraid ofyou, Riyan.”
He kept combing. “I knew youwouldn’t be.”
His voice might have been even, but he stillsounded relieved.
The tines of the comb traveled up to the back of my neck and sent tingles down my spine again. He gently ran his palm down my hair to smooth it. I held my breath as mystomach fluttered.
His low voice rumbled through the stillness. “Do you stillhate me?”
My heart skipped a beat. “You—youremembered that?”
He hummed in assent as he smoothed my hair again. “Bad memories always come back to haunt me. I can’t forget things, despite how much I wantto sometimes.”
I swallowed my guilt. “No, Riyan. I do nothate you.”
Riyan reached with both hands on either side of my neck, pulling the front strands of my hair back so he could give them attention. I sucked in a breath as his fingertips grazedmy skin.
A wisp of his breath kissed the left side of my neck before he started combing again. “The marks from Hyton are almost gone. I still don’t understand why he did that—marking you like heowns you.”
I clenched my teeth, but forced my jaw to release. “He doesnotown me.”
I stared at the candle on the desk—the flame faltered as tallow spilled down the side. The candle was lopsided, uneven, and shrinking as the seconds thumped away. The flame disappeared for a blink as Riyan took along breath.
