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I might not like him, and we certainly don’t get along. And maybe our hearts will never belong to each other in the way of a truly great romance, but we have these moments of private defenselessness in which the only thing protecting us is that mutual trust.
What if that’s the binding, my thoughts torment me. What if the spell is broken and you never feel this way again? In this moment, that fear repulses me so much that I hope whatever the thralls did to us is never fixed.
CHAPTER 57
Our arrival in London hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’m barely done with my oatmeal before my day is planned out for me. The biggest chunk of my time today will be taken up by a royal audience to receive members of the pack and introduce them to their new queen.
I don’t have Hannah or Tara with me. Technically, Hannah’s job isn’t to be my stylist, but she does help me pick things out. And Tara knows all the flaws I’m self-conscious about, because they were put there by our mother. She’s never going to let me go out in something that makes my hips look big or my neck look short.
Instead, I have a thrall who comes and tuts and frowns and tilts her head this way and that before finally giving up, I guess, and putting me in a mauve silk gown with an empire waist and a gauzy split overlay skirt. She gives me white elbow-length gloves that I have to politely explain will look goofy as heck on someone with no hand. In the end, she works a little magic with a curling iron so my hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders. But I’m on my own for makeup.
“Bailey?” Nathan calls from the parlor. “We’re needed downstairs.”
“I know.” I try to keep my voice cheerful and bright, but my bottom lip trembles. I’ve gotten okay with left-handed shadow and contouring. Lip-liner and lipstick are trickier, but I put in a lot of practice.
It’s eyeliner I’m afraid of.
Nathan steps through the open bathroom door and frowns at me. I know I look ridiculous, leaning over the sink in my formal gown, a liner brush poised millimeters from my face.
“Is everything all right?” he asks cautiously, and I burst into tears. He hurries to my side, pulling his crisply folded pocket square from the breast of his suit.
I wave it away and reach for the tissue box on the counter. “It’s silly. And it’s messing up my mascara.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he offers.
I shake my head. “Hannah and Tara have been doing my eyeliner for me when I need it.”
“Oh, because of your hand.” He wiggles the fingers of his right hand. Noting the open pot of gel liner on the counter, he picks it up. “It’s just paint, is it?”
“Yeah…” I’m not sure I like where this heading, because it seems like it’s heading for Nathan trying to put my eyeliner on me. “But it’s not really as simple as it sounds.”
He leans in close to my face. “I think I could reasonably trace your eyelid for you. None of that pointy business at the corners. I’m a passable painter.”
“You paint?” I have seen zero indication of a hobby in the months we’ve been together.
“When I have time to relax, which I haven’t had much of lately”. He takes the brush from my fingers and tilts my chin up in his hand. “I found I had a taste for watercolor when I was in school, and I never gave it up. Don’t tell anyone. Now, don’t move.”
I close my eyes and hold very still, hoping for the best. I remembered to bring makeup wipes, right?
The silence of the bathroom makes me focus on Nathan’s steady breathing as he concentrates. The rustle of his clothing and the tap of the brush in the product give me goosebumps. But it’s not his closeness that makes my heart squeeze up tight; it’s his kindness. It’s his willingness to meet my vulnerable moment with intimacy.
“There,” he says, leaning away. “Is that right?”
I open my eyes and face the mirror and shockingly, he did a passable job. He wasn’t kidding about just tracing my upper lid, but he did vary the thickness of the line toward the outer corner. It’s a bit Disney princess-y, but I can wear it.
“Yes, thanks.” I blink back fresh tears because there’s no reason to ruin the eyeliner. “Watercolors, huh?”
“Landscapes. Birds. Owls, mostly.” He shrugs. “I can show you sometime, if you’d like.”
“I think I would.”
“Oh. I was supposed to bring you these.” He reaches into his jacket and produces the damn opera gloves. Just as I begin to protest, he shakes one out; the hand is missing, the end sewn up. “The thrall who was here before just finished them.”
