Grievous (Wanted Men #5) - Nancy Haviland Page 0,76

up with a few cruel words. I see it every day at the gallery. An artist stands off to the side, sick with nerves as their babies are put on display. Some guy who’s had a bad day at work trudges in because his wife insisted he accompany her, and rather than take his frustration out on the pushy wife, he shits on a color scheme or the size of the canvas on display. He goes home, forgets about the evening, while the artist hovers over his beautiful creation, devastated by what was said. One woman told me, every time she puts brush to canvas, she remembers every meaningless criticism she’s ever gotten about her art.” She shook her head, her stomach turning over as she pictured the pain in the eyes of her artists. “I admire them for pursuing their dream despite the cruelty out there. I’ll probably always paint for myself. So?” She patted his hand on her shoulder. “How about you? Got any secrets you wanna get off your gorgeous chest?”

She held her breath and prayed he would allow for the change in topic. She didn’t want to talk about how her cowardice made her feel.

He was silent for a moment, and then his strong hands began kneading her shoulders. He must have felt her growing tension. When he began sifting his fingers through her hair, she knew he’d read her reluctance and was going to give her a pass.

“Your hair is the same color as the dining room table I sat around with my family growing up. Mahogany. The streaks of honey give it depth and warmth. Your eyes have them, too.”

She sighed with something very close to happiness as she hooked her hands around his ankles. He combed his fingers from the front of her scalp to the back a few times, and then he gathered her hair and…started braiding it?

“I used to braid my horse’s mane,” he floored her by saying. “I was gifted him on my eleventh birthday. By my father. He was a gentle man. A university professor who taught economics.”

That was unexpected. “Really? So that’s where you got your business acumen from.”

“I like to think so.” When he reached the end, he undid the braid and started again. “My mother hated him. My father, not the horse. She had him killed. Again, him, not the horse. So I had her killed.”

Shock had her turning, but before she could get far, he gripped the half-made braid hard to hold her in place.

“I have no qualms about stopping my story here and sending you up to our room alone. If you move again, that is where you will find yourself.”

She shut her mouth, replaced her hands on his ankles, and waited with baited breath. He tortured her by stroking her collar and murmuring quietly in his own language for a moment before continuing. She could tell she’d pleased him.

“My grandfather was a powerful man, feared by many. His daughter was spoiled. A disloyal curvă. I learned this about my mother when I was eight, and I entered the master bedroom without knocking because I was in a hurry to tell her Markus had fallen. She was in hers and my father’s bed, getting fucked by my grandfather’s best friend.” He came to the end of her hair. Unraveled the braid. Began again. “She instructed me to wait outside until she was finished. Later that night, when I saw her kiss my father with the mouth another man had shoved his tongue into only hours before, something changed. I never looked at her the same.”

Yasmeen bit the inside of her cheek to stay quiet, sure he’d never looked at any woman the same after that.

“I took Markus riding one afternoon while she serviced a man I later found out was my grandfather’s enemy.” He paused, and she felt him wrap her hair around his fist. He held it for a moment, then released it. He went back to his braid after rubbing his chin on the crown of her head. “When we returned to the stables, there was a message waiting for me from my sister asking me to let my mother know Miruna would be arriving home for break earlier than expected—she had been studying in Rome. Leaving Markus with our men, I went up to the house, but before I rounded the corner onto the back veranda, I heard voices. My mother’s lover was congratulating her on her newly acquired widow status.