And worse, why does every part of me want him to do it again?
16
MARCUS
As I sit cross-legged on the floor of the hotel suite, I have to fight the urge not to fidget while Minerva’s fingers move through my hair with ease. It isn’t the floor—I like being grounded, low to the earth, where I can feel steady—it’s the braids themselves.
The braids should feel like armor, like a tether to my father, to the blood that runs in me. Instead, they make me hyper-aware of the split, of how I’m always caught in between. Too much of one thing to belong fully to the other, too little to ever be whole. My wolf doesn’t care; he claims all of it as ours without question. But me? I can’t shake the voice that whispers I’m a fake.
Minerva shakes out her hands, flexing her fingers as though to chase away the burn. Our gazes catch in the mirror, and she tilts her head. “Mind if we take a break?” Her smile is sheepish, soft around the edges. “I’m a little out of practice.”
I push to stand, ready to give her the space she’s asking for, when movement in the corner of my eye stops me. Esmerelda straightens from where she’s been leaning against the door, arms folded like she’s been there for a while.
She strides across the room. The movement is fluid, purposeful, and it attracts my attention like a magnet. My wolfperks up instantly, tail lashing, as if her crossing the room is a threat or a promise. I can’t decide which.
“Here, let me,” she says, voice steady, allowing no room for argument.
Minerva flashes her a grateful smile and rises, brushing her hands off on her skirt. “I’ll get us something to drink. Lemonade okay for everyone?”
Her words barely register. My focus is still on Esmerelda, the way she takes up the space Minerva leaves behind as though it belongs to her now. The shift in the air is subtle but undeniable. I should say something. I should move. Instead, I just watch, pulse thudding, waiting to see what she’ll do next.
Eventually, I remember that Min asked a question, and I nod. “Yes, please.”
As though my words are a reminder to Esmerelda, she nods. Min heads to the kitchen, her footsteps fading, and Esmerelda moves into the space behind me. I catch the subtle tug of her presence before she even sits—the scent of her skin, the quiet strength in her posture—and my body reacts before my brain does.
I shift instinctively, scooting back so she can reach.
Huge mistake.
My bare shoulders brush against the warm, taut muscles of her inner thighs, and the contact sparks through me like a short-circuiting wire. Heat travels up my spine, leaving me breathless.
I freeze, caught between the urge to jerk away and the dangerous pull to lean closer. The rational part of me screams retreat, but the rest, the part that’s bone and blood and wolf, aches for more. Gods, even that fleeting touch is enough to unravel me; to remind me how impossible it is to be this close to her and not burn.
Our eyes catch in the mirror, and we stare at each other longer than we should. Heat climbs Esmerelda’s throat,blooming red along her neck, but she drops her gaze quickly, hiding in the motion of her hands as they work through my hair.
After a while, she catches my gaze in the mirror again. “Don’t look so surprised,” she murmurs, voice low, almost intimate. Or maybe that’s my brain short-circuiting. “Didn’t think I could do this, did you?”
My mouth moves before my mind can catch up. “No. Honestly, I figured you were the type to let servants handle everything for you.” The words come out harsher than I intend, and I instantly feel regret.
I brace for the familiar snap of her temper. My wolf even pricks his ears, anticipating the clash, but nothing comes.
She keeps working with a quiet focus, her silence somehow louder than any retort she could’ve thrown. And that silence twists inside me, settling heavy in my gut, because I don’t know what it means. Have I finally landed a blow too deep, or is she tired of me? Of the fighting?
“Yeah, I don’t blame you for thinking that,” she says finally. “After all, I do walk around with a lady-in-waiting.”
Her voice dips lower, softening in a way I’m not used to. “Truth is, it’s always made me feel guilty to have Min doing things for me. My father assigned her to me when I was sixteen, but I’ve never been able to treat her like she’s just…staff.”
The admission catches me off guard. Esmerelda rarely offers pieces of herself so openly. Usually, she throws out sharp words like armor, all bite and bravado, but this feels unguarded. Human. My wolf goes still, like even he understands this isn’t a moment to interrupt.
“So, where did you learn to braid?” The question slips out before I can stop it. It’s like I’m trying to soak up as much of this conflict-free interaction as I can.
She shrugs. “I used to help Min with her siblings during sleepovers. Back when I liked to pretend I was just a normal kid.”
Something in her voice hooks me. A thread of longing, maybe, or loss. The image of Esmerelda, braiding children’s hair, laughing in some dimly lit room far from politics and titles, doesn’t fit the tough, controlled woman I know. And yet, picturing it softens something in me.
“It sounds nice,” I say, because suddenly I’m jealous of her childhood and the carefree moments she managed to steal.
She starts to answer, but Min sweeps back into the room with our drinks and a clear bottle. “You’re a lifesaver,” she beams, leaning down to hug Esmerelda quickly before handing her a small spray bottle. “Don’t forget to mist as you go. Otherwise the strands snag instead of sliding.”
