Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
J ack carries the bag of food he’s brought to the tiny kitchenette and sets it on the countertop. He avoids my eyes as if, in doing so, he can dodge what I just said. “Do you need anything else?” he says. “Besides milk?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Right.” He spins and makes to leave. “Then I’ll just?—”
I leap from bed and intercept him, slotting myself between his hulking body and the door. He backs up, practically recoiling in his haste to get away from me.
My fingers flex at my sides, the tips tingling. What a strange feeling, to wield power over a man like this. He’s tall and broad and solid, the proportions of his body alien beside mine, yet when I step toward him, his entire frame tenses as if to ward off my next move.
I sidle yet another step closer.
“What’re you doing?” he says, his voice low and rasping.
Fortuna. I’m probably evil for doing this. For plotting.
But Jack will benefit from us touching just as much as I will. He can ride off into the sunset, curse-free, and I’ll return to Pine’s End Markless and magicless. Weston will have no reason to refuse me, then. I’ll find out if any part of him has ever considered the idea of us.
I smile up at Jack. “Actually, I do need your help with something.”
He swallows audibly. “With what, exactly?”
“My hair. It needs to be brushed and braided.”
Silence pools between us. Again, I can’t see his face, and I wonder if this is why he insisted on evenings—so he could hide from me, like he did yesterday.
“It’s not like I can do it myself,” I say. It’s half true—Minnie always attended to my hair. Truth be told, I could probably manage on my own, but that’s not the point. “If I let it go, it’ll get all tangly and hopeless and I’ll have to cut it off.”
He flinches, like the idea of that pains him. An eternity slides past as he considers.
“It’s just my hair,” I add. “And you have gloves on.”
“Fine,” he finally says.
My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, walling off the whoop that gathers in my throat. This will give us a chance to talk. To touch. Sort of.
“Great.” I force my voice even. “Thank you.”
He shifts his weight. “Where...?”
“Over by the fire.”
He nods, or I think he does. The flames have died back, and it’s hard to tell amid all these shadows.
I feel my way through the dimness and find my trunk, where I rummage for my sterling silver hairbrush. The thing is edged in gold and utterly ridiculous—plain wood would’ve worked just as well—but it’s all I have.
At the fire, I toss on a few logs. Light leaps when the wood catches. Jack keeps to the shadows, as if waiting for me to turn my back before emerging into the light.
I shrug at his reticence, then settle on the floor in front of the paisley armchair that faces the fire. I wait. And wait.
Finally, heavy footfalls approach. The chair groans when Jack lowers his considerable weight. His black-clad knees appear in the edges of my vision, bracketing my body. I hold up the brush without glancing back.
He takes it, but doesn’t seem to know where to start.
“You do know how to braid, right?” I prompt.
A pause. “In theory. But I’ve never actually done it before.”
“Really? You’ve never had a woman ask? Never done it for one of your lovers?”
He makes a soft, strangled sound. I’m probably not supposed to bring up things like that so casually, but honestly, we’re both adults. And this is nothing compared to the book I spent the day immersed in.
“No,” he says. “The truth is, I always get away from them as quickly as possible. After I... Well. After.”
I go still. Of course. He wouldn’t want to stick around and burden anyone with his luck. He wouldn’t want them catching the flu in August and nearly dying, just because they spent time in his proximity.
Once again, that fist of sympathy clamps around my heart. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me. You realize that, right? I’m immune.”
“I know.”
The statement is sparse, and yet a world of meaning layers itself into the syllables. He sounds both desolate and relieved, and underneath it all, thankful to be sharing space with me. To be freed for these few stolen moments from the burden of his curse.
I like it, too. Knowing I’m just a girl right now.
I draw up my knees and hug them close. Jack eventually lets go of a breath, so deep and prolonged it must empty his entire body of air.
He begins to brush.
He starts with the ends, just like Minnie always does, then works his way up. A few times, his gloved fingers brush against the nape of my neck. Each time, a shiver trills through my bones. Memories of our encounter in the carriage rise to the surface.
I let them flow. Ultimately, I might have to resort to kissing him again, because some internal directive took over for him in that moment, a hemmed-in hunger that broke loose and swallowed him whole. He was driven by pure need. I tasted it on his tongue.
Maybe I could reach that part of him again.
The brush rises and falls. I close my eyes, soothed by the swish of bristles, then by the gentle tug as he moves on to the plait. He’s careful not to touch my scalp, despite his gloves, but it’s something. A start.
And it feels incredible, really. There’s something oddly intimate about letting a man do this, even if it’s the unlikeliest of circumstances—me sitting by the fire in my nightgown, being attended to by my Null kidnapper.
When Jack finishes, he passes the brush back over my shoulder. I take it. I expect him to get up, but he doesn’t, so I wait, my breath held.
After half an eternity, his hand grazes the back of my neck. Or rather, his glove does. Leather glides against skin as he runs his thumb across my nape.
“It’s lopsided,” he says, and there’s something wrong with his voice. Something strained. “The braid, I mean. Sorry.”
I swivel around and look up.
His hand falls away. He stares down, his face swathed in shadow, the chair angled in such a way that the wingback casts him into darkness.
But I can see well enough to tell he doesn’t spare a glance for my triquetra, even though my keyhole neckline offers the perfect viewing window. And the way he’s looking at me…
“Thank you,” I say.
Jack swallows, his throat a ripple of shadow and firelight. “You’re welcome.”
When he doesn’t move, I rise up onto my knees. His breath catches in his throat. His gloved fingers curl into fists atop his thighs.
A heady tingle sheets through me. He seems so...affected by me. By this. And I’m not as immune as I’d like to be, because the moment writhes and sizzles. I never stare at people this intently, yet right now, I would have more difficulty looking away.
What is it with these Nulls and their raw magnetism?
“Where were you, today?” I murmur.
“Disposing of the duke’s carriage.”
I blink. Right.
“He’s sent men out looking for you.” He rushes through that explanation as if hoping it will save him. From what, I can’t say. “They were in the woods today. Searching.”
I ease back on my heels, sobered by that. “They’re welcome to try. But they won’t find me. Not when I don’t want to be found. I’m too lucky for that.”
His lips press together. “You don’t want to go back?”
“No. I’d do anything not to.”
His gaze flickers away, and the moment of connection passes. “Well, your luck might hold when I’m not here. But with me sitting in this chair, and you doing”—he clears his throat and waves a hand—“ that ...anything could happen. They could find this place.”
Ice coasts down my spine. He’s right, and the prospect of discovery casts a chill into my marrow. I can’t let the duke’s men haul me to the altar before I’ve convinced Jack to banish my Mark.
He sighs. “If anyone’s out there... It’s just chance right now. For as long as I’m in this room, neither of us has any luck, good or bad. Which means I should go.”
He’s right, and I hate it. I hate that sharing space exposes us.
“But you’ll come again tomorrow?” I say.
“Just for a minute.”
My attention drifts past him to the windows. No lights or lanterns bob in the woods, but I feel painfully vulnerable all of the sudden. Anyone roaming out there would probably glimpse the firelight from a quarter mile off.
Jack rises from the chair and carefully maneuvers around me. When he reaches the door, I remember to ask.
“How is she? Your friend?”
He turns so the firelight catches his profile, and I startle. I can’t understand why I thought of him as plain-faced yesterday, because even beneath the mask, the lines of his face hint at boldness .
“Better.” True warmth seeps into his voice. Whoever the woman on the other side of the wall is, he cares about her. “A little, at least. Thank you for that.”
“Could I visit her, maybe?”
He tenses. “Better not. She needs all the rest she can get right now.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. I won’t bother her, then.”
“Thank you.” He reaches for the doorknob.
“Jack?”
“Yes? Do you need—” He turns to face me fully. And abruptly cuts off.
I try to imagine what I look like, kneeling here before the fire, backlit and glowing, with my braid hanging over one shoulder and my palms braced on my thighs.
Whatever he sees, it makes him hover there for far too long, his expression caught between a plea and a warning. Not that I can see much with that mask covering everything. But I get the gist, regardless.
“I can’t go back,” I tell him softly. “If I have to marry the duke, I’ll die.”
“Then I’ll stay away,” he says. “I’ll make sure no one finds you.”
I consider that. “There’s another option, you know.”
He sets his jaw. “Oh?”
“Yes.” I hunt for my courage. Thankfully, it’s easier to locate when I’m not face-to-face with Weston. “You could touch me again. For longer, this time.”
A choked sound comes from his throat.
“Not,” I hasten to add, “that I’m trying to seduce you, or anything. I just... I don’t want it. My Mark. I never have. I’d rather just be normal. ”
He stands frozen, his gloved hand on the doorhandle. “You hate your luck that much?”
I dig my thumbs into the priceless, buttery silk of my nightgown. “I hate that it dictates everything about my life. Where I can go, who I can touch. Who I have to marry.”
“Right.” He laughs, short and hard and barren, as if I’ve just imparted deeply unpleasant news. “So you’re asking a Null to touch you. Of course that’s why.”
I frown. He thinks I’m trying to use him, clearly. “Touching me would free you, too.”
Another merciless laugh. “Yes, but what you’re asking... It can’t be undone. If you regretted...I’d have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Regret it.”
“You don’t know that. Not for sure.”
I clench my fists, but I have no way to refute that. “Please.”
He shakes his head, short and sharp, and hauls his gaze from mine. “It’s not going to happen. I’m sorry.”
Before I can answer, he slips out into the night.
This time, he doesn’t even say goodbye.