fails…
I force the thoughts from my mind, redoubling my focus on his hair. That’s more than enough to consume all my attention, for the brush seems to be doing very little to help. I consider giving up on the back and move to the front to assess if it’s any better. Leaning forward, I lift a tangled lock from his forehead. “Saints, Elliot, have you ever once brushed your hair?”
“No. I never needed a brush as a wolf.”
“But you groomed yourself in your own wolfy way, did you not?”
His frown tells me I’m right. “Yes,” he bites out.
Rifling my fingers through his matted strands, I shake my head. “Damn it to hell, this is impossible. I might have to tell Foxglove to just cut it all off at the scalp. In fact…” I smooth his hair away from his forehead, then bend down closer to study how it looks. I squint, trying to imagine him with such a short style. It would be ideal if he could keep the top long while trimming the back to his nape so at least some of the sun-kissed gold at the bottom half remains. I lean to the side and gather the back of his hair, then assess him again. Cocking my head to the side, my haphazard updo tumbles loose over my shoulder. I release the king’s hair, preparing to collect my own, when he leans slightly forward.
And inhales.
I freeze, caught off guard as he breathes in deeply, lips just inches from my neck. Then, like it had been the most normal thing in the world, he leans back in his chair.
My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to compose myself. Straightening, I say, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
I give him a pointed look. “You can’t go round smelling people like that.”
His eyes take on a distant look. “Your hair smells like the wind. Mountains, snow, and trees.”
A blush burns my cheeks, and I can only pray he doesn’t notice. “Well, I was outside much of yesterday,” I mutter. “But you must take better care next time. That isn’t proper. Perhaps with Imogen…during courting…but with me…well, it’s like I said about the staring.”
His gaze slides to mine and there it locks, burning like the heat flooding my face. A corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk, but he doesn’t avert his gaze the way I taught him.
“Damn it, Elliot.” My voice comes out breathless. “You’re doing it wrong.”
For several moments, all I can hear is my raging heart, unable to look away as his gaze traps me like prey. Something moves inside me, but I can’t identify it. Is it fear? Panic? No, neither of those. Excitement? My pulse speeds even faster at the thought. No, it most certainly isn’t that. Not over the wolf king.
“Miss Bellefleur, that’s hardly what I’d call brushed,” Foxglove says from the door, freeing me from the king’s gaze.
I slam the brush on the bureau and stalk away from Elliot, arms crossed. “I’ve given up. Shave it clean off if you must.”
Elliot groans a protest, and I answer him with a glare.
“I’ll do whatever I can,” Foxglove says. “Oh, and by the way. The coach that arrived was not here for me after all. It brought humans and they refuse to leave.”
My eyes go wide. “Who are they?”
“Some Richard Bellefleur,” he says with a shrug. “A relation of yours, I presume.”
The blood drains from my face, and my heart hammers for a whole new reason. “Shit,” I say. “My father’s here.”
20
It takes me several minutes to compose myself in the hall as I gather the nerve to meet my father. I’ve known in the back of my mind that I’d eventually need to confront him, but I hadn’t been prepared to do it this soon. How did he even find me, anyway? When I sent Bertha with my letter informing him of my new employment, I gave no indication where said job was, only that I was being provided room and board and would not be returning to the townhouse.
Then it dawns on me.
Nina. My sister saw the address when I received the invitation for the interview. She warned me not to come here. Torn between feeling betrayed and guilty that I hadn’t sent an additional letter just for her, I take a deep breath and force myself out the front door.
Once outside, the first thing I see is Gray and Blackbeard standing guard before the door, their stern expressions a silent threat barring