Chapter 10

Ten

R uby

I am not ready to go back out there. I know he's waiting for me, clearly far more patiently than I'd have expected a man like him could wait—because I've been in here for an age.

Not only have I lathered every inch of my body in cream, in a futile attempt to smother the scent of him that clings to his shirt that I now wear, but I also brushed my teeth and blow-dried my hair.

I don't usually wash my hair before bed, but after spending so long cleaning with the unscented soap in the cellar, I couldn't resist the scent of my rose products. Besides, I'm homesick—I've been homesick—so having this familiar scent, however muted by cedar and flame, is nice.

Just as I lift my brush to begin sorting through the mass of wavy red strands, because it's always chaos after a blow dry , the bathroom door opens, and he strolls inside.

Goodness, he's divine. In a darkly, undoubtedly sinful, way.

He's still wearing his pants. I blush fiercely when I note he's redone the buckle of his belt. But his chest is bare to expose that bear tattoo.

He doesn't stop moving until he's standing in the mirror directly behind me. Seeing our images in the mirror together is shocking. I'd known I am much smaller than him, but seeing the difference like this—it's more than a little disarming.

The man has to stand at a whopping six-foot-four, and he's broad and built, with what looks like muscle on top of muscle. Like a bear. I'd caught a glimpse of a trail of dark hair that began at his belly button and ran to below the line of his pants—but thankfully, all that is covered by my much smaller image in the mirror before him.

He's standing so close; I can feel the puff of his hot breaths as they make my flyaway hairs dance. The top of my head hardly covers his pecs. My five-foot-two is nothing in comparison to this man's whopping stack of muscle.

He could crush me like a bug. Or, more accurately, like a bear might crush the bones of its prey.

I bite down on my lower lip to stave off another shiver with just a pinch of pain. His dark eyes track the motion in the mirror. It doesn't take long before the same raw hunger that caused me to flee him inside the bedroom, flares, in those bottomless pits.

I don't understand the response, if I'm being honest. His shirt practically drowns me in material. It conceals all my curves, leaving only my legs, which aren't much considering my height , half-bare.

Saying nothing, Kirill leans forward to pluck the pink brush from my grip. I have to fight the way my mouth longs to fall open when he steps back only a small amount, and begins to run the brush through my strands. Like an expert, he begins at the bottom and works his way up.

It feels so good.

It's been so long since someone has touched me in a kind way. Even before I'd been taken, I'd been achingly ravenous for touch. Something I'd had plenty of all throughout my life, even as my life had been sheltered.

Mama's love language had been physical touch. The times she'd pulled a brush through my hair while telling me of her day as a pediatric oncology social worker, well, I couldn't count them. They were far too many, far too frequently.

Mama had loved my hair, the bright red of it having come from her side, although the red in her own hair had been muted in comparison to my own, and Nana's.

My heart gives a painful squeeze. I miss them both so much.

Kirill makes his way up with the brush, untangling knots until my hair is nothing but a gleaming fall of soft waves. The first time the brush connects with my tingling scalp—the anticipation of this touch so great my body awaited it with an eager hum—I release an unwilling moan.

Heaven, but I could have my hair brushed for the rest of my life, and die blissfully happy.

I don't think, I just let my eyes flutter closed as I tip my head back, seeking more of this thoughtless bliss.

Kirill doesn't disappoint, pulling the brush through my hair again and again, a flavor of sensation bursting over my scalp to trickle down my body. Shivers overtake me, erupting tiny goosebumps over every inch of my flesh. My breasts perk, nipples peaking against the soft material of the shirt. I'm not aroused, simply stimulated.

And I think nothing of the sight that I am giving to him as I enjoy his ministrations. I think nothing of what he sees in the mirror, because I'm pretending that it's not him—not my new husband—giving me this innocent pleasure.

Not until he shatters that innocent pleasure with a gravelly voice against the shell of my ear. "My God. You are so beautiful."

My eyes fly open, the spell broken. "T-thank you."

Wait, why am I thanking him?

And why does it make me feel all fuzzy and warm? The way he's looking at me as though I've thrown a spell over him ?

"I've never brushed a woman's hair before."

Why do I like that? That I have a first of his to keep, when I know he'll steal every first I have to give?

"For someone who's never done it, you sure know what you're doing."

He doesn't crack that expected devilish grin. The grin that slays ladies, and sets panties to cinders.

"I've seen it done a handful of times."

My lips twist into a scowl. "I'll bet."

"I don't want to talk about other women with you."

I grump. "You started it."

That devilish grin makes its appearance as he leans in to slide the brush back onto the counter. But he doesn't pull away. In fact, he plants his big paws on the countertop on either side of my body, bracketing me in with his body at my back. He's so close, I can feel the heat of him. It scorches.

When his grin stretches and his eyes connect with mine in the mirror, I feel a tug in my core.

Damn him.

"Is my wife jealous?"

I sputter, "Absolutely not."

His grin only widens as he appraises me. It goes on so long, his gaze drinking in all of me, that I feel those prickly sensations again. Only this time, they aren't called to the surface by the bristles of a brush—but rather, the rake of coffee-colored eyes.

"You really are so beautiful, Ruby."

I don't say thank you this time, though his compliment has my insides melting, willing my stubborn body to melt into his. His words feel intimate, like a touch. A caress.

I'm not ready for that.

I dip my head, casting my eyes downward, attempting to hide from him. He doesn't let me.

With one hand, he palms my belly, pulling me back against the hard mass of him. I gasp, my eyes flying to his in the mirror as he watches me, assesses me. Then his big paw begins travelling up the length of my torso. Breaths spill choppily into the silence as he pushes his hand between the valley of the breasts, that have always been too big for my frame— and a source of high anxiety throughout my life —and up the column of my throat. He doesn't stop until he's cradling my face, the rough pad of his thumb moving over the swell of my bottom lip.

"Come. I'm ready to taste my wife." His words spark a new kind of fear, and, to my shame and horror, a new eruption of hot heat in my core.

I should fight him. I should kick, and scream, and run .

But I don't do any of that.

I simply follow him when he takes my hand and guides me from the room.

Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I just know there's no point, and I've never been a fighter. Maybe I've given up clinging to a virtue that's gotten me nowhere, in a desperation to honor my faith to a God who oversees cruelty, rewarding it with riches, while the innocent suffer. Maybe I'm just done.

I don't know.

All I know is, as I follow him, I don't feel the expected wash of doom.

When he pulls back the covers and urges me between the cream-colored sheets, I don't feel dirty.

When he rounds the bed, and I watch as he shucks his pants, leaving the briefs he wears on before sliding into the bed with me—I just feel…

I feel as though I am his.

And it doesn't feel wrong.