“Mostly straight. It does often have a mind of its own, however. Oren is always telling me to cut it shorter as it gets in my eyes constantly.”
“Do you pull it away from your face when it gets in your eyes?” I can sympathize with the frustrations of longer hair.
“I’ve been known to weave in a braid or two from time to time.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“What color?”
“Dark brown, a bit darker than yours.” That gives me a near-exact shade.
“What color are your eyes?”
“Green.”
“Like the pine trees?”
“No, more like a lime,” he says. I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”
“Green like a lime?” I shake my head. Who would describe their eyes like that? “That’s such a bright color.”
“I have been told I have piercing eyes.”
I scrunch my brow slightly, trying to picture the exact shade. Is it truly as vibrant as he says? Dark brown hair, bright green eyes… It makes for a beautiful combination. “What about your jaw?”
“What about it?” He seems amused I would ask.
“Is it wider? More narrow? Stubbled?”
“I try and keep myself clean-shaven. I admit my success with it can be varied.”
“Are you successful right now?”
“No.” I can almost hear the smirk in his voice. A light stubble, then.
“And the shape of your jaw?”
“I admit I’ve never analyzed it.” A pause. I imagine him running those smooth fingers of his over the roughness of his stubble. Pausing as he says, “More square? I suppose?”
I let out a low humming.
“You don’t seem satisfied with that answer.”
“I’m just…”
“Say it,” he demands. I think it would be impossible not to heed that firm tone.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with you,” I admit and immediately busy my mouth with my glass of mead.
“What’s wrong with me?” I hear him take a sip as well.
“You sound…stunning,” I admit as little more than a whisper. “I thought you might have not wanted me to see you because you were hideous.”
His glass clanks softly on the table. I hear him stand. I’ve offended him. Before I can apologize he’s there again in front of me. He hooks my chin with the knuckle of his pointer finger and his thumb. He guides my face up toward where I imagine his to be. I know he’s just a breath away. I feel every little bit of aching distance between us, paired with a surprising need to cross it. I’m hot all over, but I can’t move to alleviate the tension. He’s trapped me with two fingers.
“Maybe,” he whispers, “I’m trying to protect you because I’m stunning. Because if you were to look at me with those eyes that Oren tells me are like a tempest sea, I could never let you go.”
I can smell the sweet liquor on his breath. I wish I could taste it on his mouth. That want is so all-consuming it startles me. My mind pushes away instantly. No, whatever is happening between us is the last thing I would want. This is the start of the same road that leads to how my father ended up so entangled with Joyce.
Romance starts well and ends badly. That’s how it fools people into attempting the futile effort. Joyce was Father’s “light,” pulling him out of the despair of my mother’s death. And then, once she had him, she showed her true colors.
I won’t let Lord Fenwood or anyone else ever ensnare me.
He releases me, as if sensing my hesitation. As if realizing that I’ve finally reached the same conclusion that he has. The best thing for us to do is avoid each other at all costs. If we can’t see each other, then we can’t lust after each other, and this heat will ultimately fade.
“Good night, Katria.”
Yet even as I make those realizations and vows, just the sound of my name on his lips has my breath catching. He leaves me with the remnants of the fire smoldering in the hearth—smoldering within me. I sit alone in the darkening room, still blindfolded, slowly tweaking the delicious mental portrait of him I’ve begun to construct.
