Page 40 of For a Price

He reaches up to stroke my twisted hair, his touch slow and surprisingly gentle.

I find myself watching him in the mirror, studying every nuance that flits across his chiseled face.

He’s curious,intriguedby my hair. He touches it softly as though cautious he’ll hurt me.

“Your hair,” he says, “why do you do it like this?”

“Like what?”

“These braids.”

I laugh. “They’re not braids. They’re twist outs.”

“Twist… outs?”

“Yeah, it’s a protective style after washing. You leave them to dry like this and when you undo them, they leave your hair in more defined curls.”

He makes a grunting noise like he’s digesting the information. I can’t help laughing some more as he strokes my hair, his gaze set on the thick lavender strands. You’d think he’s studying something he’s never seen before.

Then I realize… that’s exactly the case. Roman still has a thick Russian accent. It’s unlikely he came across many women like me where he’s from.

“What do you think of it?” I prompt in my own form of curiosity.

“It’s different…” he admits, his warm palm sliding down the nape of my neck and then resting on my back. He meets my gaze in the mirror the same way I’d done to him. “But not bad different. Different can be good. Your hair… it’s very soft... like a cloud. I like how it feels to touch.”

My lips quirk in an almost smile. “I wish I had a leave-in moisturizer. It’ll dry out soon if I don’t add any product.”

“Leave-in,” he repeats in his thick Russian accent. “I’ll have one of my men pick it up. What is this leave-in? It’s in a bottle? For your hair?”

“Yes, Roman,” I snicker. “It’s a product for hair. And you don’t have to get it for me. I’m just a pet, right?”

I sidestep around him ’til I’m headed for the bathroom door and he’s left behind by the mirror. I don’t make it far into the bedroom before he’s shadowing behind me. His presence is palpable, something I canfeel.

“Why is it purple?” he asks.

“Because I dyed it that way. In case you haven’t noticed, I like to be different.”

“Difficult is more like it,” he says. He gestures to the tray of food he brought. “Eat, devochka. You need to regain your energy. Right now you’re frail and weak.”

“I’ve never been frail a day in my life.”

“The bruises say otherwise.”

I roll my eyes, though I take him up on the offer. My stomachisreaching the point of growling. I sit down in the armchair and uncover the dish of food on the tray.

Another Russian meal.

This time, I’m being given more than salad and a couple dumplings.

Dumplingsarepresent, of course, but there’s also some noodles, meat, and gravy that actually smell delicious. It takes me a second too long to realize it’s beef stroganoff.

I dig in without warning, picking up my fork and shoveling a few mouthfuls.

Roman stands and watches me.

Honestly, I’m so damn hungry, I kind of forget he’s there. It’s like my hunger didn’t register until I had food in front of me. Now my stomach aches, begging to be filled. I swallow another mouthful of beef stroganoff and then tear into the baked roll that’s come with the dinner.

Roman tilts his head slightly to the side. “My kitty cat is starving.”

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