Page 18 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

“This has to be perfect, Lilah,” she says, this time more quietly. “You can’t fuck this up. Don’t ruin this. Not again.”

“Kitten,” I say softly.

She gasps, whirling toward me. Her eye makeup streaked down her cheeks, as if she’s been crying.

“Atticus,” she breathes out, wiping under her eyes. It only smears more.

I walk to her, keeping my eyes on hers. Putting together her words with her trauma due to her piece of shit ex, it’s not difficult to figure out what’s going on in here.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her.

Her bright blue eyes go wide before she blinks a few times, looking away. I grab her chin, gently making her look at me.

“Youarebeautiful. Perfect. And you haven’t fucked up a thing. Do you understand me?”

She swallows hard, then nods.

My other hand comes up to cup her cheek, and I brush my thumbs beneath her eyes, smudging her makeup even more.

“We don’t have to go anywhere, if you don’t want to,” I say. “If it’s too much, we can stay here.”

“But we got dressed up, and you look so… fuck, you look so hot, Atty.”

I smirk at her nickname. I had one of those once, but never Atty. I like it.

Running my fingers through her hair, I say, “Do you need help with this?”

She sighs, her eyes falling closed.

“Yes, please,” she says so quietly I hardly hear her.

Looking behind her, I spot the hair straightener. That must have been one of the things she ordered online with my card. I told her to get everything she needed, and I’m glad she listened.

“Turn around, Kitten.”

She does as I say, her gaze going to the mirror, those blue eyes watching me with some emotion I can’t place. Her eyes look almost empty, but they’re too beautiful to be that way.

I pick up the brush and run it through her hair. It’s silent as I figure out how to do this. I’ve never done a woman’s hair before, and there’s something oddly intimate about it. A strange feelingI’ve never felt before. Some sort of new connection. I take small chunks of her hair and put it through the straightener. Neither of us says a word as I work, though I feel her stare on me in the mirror. I do this until I’ve got it all and her hair is straight. I lean down to kiss her shoulder, then unplug the straightener so we don’t have a fire.

“Thank you,” she says, eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

I give her a small smile, and bring my hands to her bare arms, slowly running them up and down her soft skin.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, noting I actually care.

There’s something heavy on my chest over seeing her like this.

“Will you be angry if I don’t want to go out?” I see the fear in her eyes, feel it in the way her body tenses. This is an emotion I am familiar with. It’s the one I’ve seen the most from other people.

What I’m going to say to her needs to be face-to-face, this reflection nonsense won’t do, so I carefully spin her to face me and cup her cheeks to make sure she can’t look away.

“I will never get angry with you for choosing what’s right for you. Never.”

“Atty—”

“Always be honest with me. Never do something for me just because I want it.”

The words are difficult to say because so many people have done just that, and I was the one to lose in the end. But what’s the point in getting someone’s attention if it’s for all the wrong reasons? If it isn’t real, then it doesn’t count.

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