Page 58 of Born for Lace

I mean wash myself, though I’m not sure that’s all he’s doing. My toes curl when his index finger circles the rim. Heat floods my face, cheeks set ablaze by his dark touch.

“Mine.”

His hand disappeared from that special place, and I find the courage to turn around to face him.

“Time to get you dry,” he says, voice hoarse with restraints.

“Okay.” Due to being on a few rocky steps above him, I don’t need to arch my neck to the point of pain this time. So I stare directly into his steel-coloured gaze, comfortable.

Lagos softens, as I gaze up at him. “Little flower. Look at these bruises…” He touches my cheek, and his jaw pulses as his eyes linger on each bruise.

“Do I look ugly?”

“Not possible.”

Warm affection swirls around inside me, giving me a little more bravery. Enough to say, “That was… an experience. I’m sorry I was too tight, that it… was hard to get inside me.”Oh, my.Am I saying this all wrong?

“You’re apologising.” The softness dissolves instantly, his hand dropping, my words landing a blow unintentionally. “I hurt you. Took—” He bites down, locking words inside a cage of teeth. “You should be running from me, little flower.”

I blink at him, feeling sad.Just let yourself smile. Be kind, Lagos. I can see it inside you. Why are you fighting it?

“Doesn’t it always hurt,” I say, “a bit?” Sweets told me it hurts… I reach for his hand so naturally—almost like I’ve done it many times—and hold it. He lets me. Across his fingers, the sight of blood makes me blush, prickles of embarrassment moving up my neck and over my face.

“That’s my blood.” I swallow, that embarrassment burning beneath my cheeks. “Is that normal?”

His frown deepens.

“Well…” I start. His fingers are twice the length and width of mine. I turn his hand over and over, studying the tattoos and scars that mark him, that tell tales of pain and hardships. “Your hands are a bit bigger than mine are.” I smile up at him, desperate for the softness to return to his features. I need it. I’m naked and vulnerable while he’s slowly emotionally shutting down. “Remember,” I press, “Like the shirt? You’re a bit bigger than me.”Oh, stop talking.I’m trying so hard it’s humiliating.

A muscle in his jaw tightens, but my tedious lips won’t stop, won’t listen,won’ttake his hints.

“Do you ever smile?” I breathe. “I won’t get used to it if that is what concerns you.”

A corner of his mouth softens.Yes.“You’ve seen me smile, little flower.”

I beam. “When?”

He steps backward and reaches behind his neck, pulling his shirt over his head. “After I killed that Endigo.”

Before I can frown at that, he uses the half-dry side to pat me down. I’m distracted by the smooth muscles that ripple across his shoulders as he moves. I don’t move like that; my body doesn’t operate like a machine, built and designed. His ancestors were engineered, after all—all Xin De were.

“I've seen you grin and smirk,” I argue, gripping his shoulders, dizzied by the thick and powerful way they respond. He dries my legs, one at a time, and I try to keep my balance.

“There's a difference?” he grunts, not looking into my eyes as he finishes patting water from me so that I don’t have to twist. That is the only reason for this care and consideration. Surely.

“Yes.”

Straightening, he reaches for his other shirt—well, my shapeless dress—and helps me into it, minding my wounded rib. “And that is?”

“Grins are...” Annoyance hits my temples. “Ugh. I don't know. It’s in the shape of the lips.”

“Please, little flower, tell me about my not-smile.”

“A smirk and a grin are…” I make patterns with my hands. “Like, shaped odd and tilted…”

“Yes…”

“Cruel,” I punch out, dropping my hands.

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