Page 31 of Hunted to the Altar
“You saying I don’t have a routine?” I asked, placing my hands on her hips.
She finally looked up, meeting my gaze through the mirror. “Oh, you definitely don’t. You just roll through life raw-dogging existence.”
I chuckled at that. “Not true. I shower.”
She scoffed. “Bare minimum.”
I grinned, fingers tightening slightly on her hips. “You saying you want me to step my game up? Get some fancy oils? Maybe a bonnet?”
That earned me a laugh, soft but genuine. “I’m saying if you’re gonna be in my space, you need to learn that a Black woman’s nighttime routine is sacred. And if you don’t respect it—” she trailed off, dipping her head as she started tying her braids into a silk scarf, securing it in smooth, practiced motions. “—then you don’t deserve to be in my bed.”
I lifted a brow. “That an invitation?”
She rolled her eyes, grabbing a tub of body butter and tossing it at me. I caught it easily.
“You wanna stay? Moisturize.”
I looked down at the tub in my hands, then back at her. She smirked, finally satisfied, and turned back to the mirror.
I took my time opening it, rubbing the rich cream between my palms before smoothing it over my forearms.
Maybe she was a puzzle I’d never solve.
But I’d be damned if I didn’t enjoy trying.
As I worked the butter into my skin, I noticed her side-eyeing me in the mirror, like she was waiting for me to complain.
I hummed, pressing my hands together. “Not bad. Maybe I should upgrade my whole routine.”
She huffed a small laugh. “Step one: don’t look like someone had to force you into basic skincare.”
I moved closer, slow and deliberate, feeling the air shift between us. “Step two?”
“Respect my peace.” She dragged the last bit of butter over her collarbones, massaging the moisture in before lifting her gaze to mine. “That includes not talking while I’m getting ready for bed.”
I smirked, leaning against the vanity, watching as she picked up her bonnet and adjusted it over her braids.
“You’re real serious about this whole process,” I murmured, watching her fingers move with precision as she secured every last braid into place.
She turned, shooting me a dry look. “You imprisoned me. You don’t get to question my peace.”
I smirked, rolling my shoulders. “Imprisoned is a strong word. I’d like to think you’re my guest.”
She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Prisoner, you mean.” Fire flashed in her eyes.
“Semantics,” I said with a shrug, taking another step toward her. She didn’t back away, though her muscles tensed, a clear sign she was ready to bolt if necessary. I liked that about her. The fight. The fire.
“You’re insufferable tonight,” she muttered, brushing past me as she tried to leave the bathroom.
I caught her wrist gently but firmly, stopping her in her tracks. “Am I?” I asked, my voice soft but dangerous.
“Yes, for crying out loud, give me some breathing space,” sheglared, trying to pull her arm free. “As you can see, I’m trying to get ready for bed, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Oh, it’s entirely my business,” I murmured, stepping closer until there was barely any space between us. Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening beneath my fingers. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Everything about you is my business, Nina. Don’t forget that.”
Her eyes darted to mine, wide with both fear and something else. Something she refused to name. She pulled her wrist free, her chin tilting up defiantly.
“You can’t control everything,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
