Page 35 of Juniper Unraveling

The tin can pings off the log in a spot-on hit.

The corner of his lips slide into a half-smile at what must be a look of sheer surprise on my face.

“Beginner’s luck,” I say, tossing him another rock.

Again, he swings the sling at his side, releasing it into the air, where it smacks into the second can.

Another spot-on hit knocks the third, and paralysis claims my muscles, as I stand in complete shock and narrow my eyes. “You’ve done this before.”

With a snorted laugh, he shakes his head.

“Bullshit.” I point to the now empty log. “What you just did takes a lot of practice.” I march toward the log and lift one of the cans from the ground, peering through a hole the rock has created. “This isn’t normal. The rocks dent them, sure. But they don’t pierce them.” Tossing it to the ground, I stare back at Six, who stands with a dumbfounded expression on his face. “What are you?”

The question slips out before I can stop it, and at the dip of his brows, I instantly regret having asked. “Wait. I’m sorry. I just mean you’re the strongest, fastest person I’ve ever met. You … killed a snake with your bare hands, you can dive into a pit of Ragers without getting eaten alive, and you just performed one hell of a physics trick. Did you work as a magician in your previous life, or something?” I set my hands at my hips and shake my head. “What else can you do?”

His cheek dimples with a devilish grin.

* * *

It’s midday when Six and I finish the chores—weeding, irrigating the plants, and hanging out the laundry. My body is coated in sweat as we enter the house, and I pour two glasses of water.

“I’m going to go wash up. Stay in the house, okay? I’ll be down soon. Don’t go outside.”

He nods in understanding, polishing off the glass of water, and fills his glass again.

“Drink as much as you like,” I say before heading up to the bathroom.

Leaving the door cracked allows me to listen for Six, and I undress quickly, nervous that he might get into something while I’m showering —particularly in Papa’s off-limits study.

A part of me questions whether, or not, I should shower with him roaming the house, but the moment the cool fluids hit my skin, all that worry melts into the comfort of the water washing away the sweat and dust.

I close my eyes, tipping my head back to saturate my hair, and can hardly contain the quiet moan that escapes me.

When I open my eyes, Six is standing outside the stall with the door open, his eyes fixed toward my bare flesh.

With a gasp, I stumble back, arms covering my breasts, and I reach for the washcloth at my side to hide my exposed sex.

“You scared me!” The wobble in my voice reflects the nervous tickle in my stomach. Yes, only hours ago, I was standing outside the shower eyeing his nakedness, but somehow, this is different.

Six reaches for the washcloth, and before I can react, he soaks it with water, leaving me standing, arms crossed over my body. He lathers the soap in the fabric and sets it to my throat, gently rubbing in small circles.

The agonizing seconds that follow, as I remain on display for him, allow my head to relax, and with a harsh gulp, I lower my hands to let him touch me.

If I stare at him long enough, his scars blur into his skin, and Six becomes the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. The blue of his eyes pulls me under, while I drown in his soft caresses, his gentle care as he washes the dirt from my body and makes me clean again.

Beneath the cloth, Six explores every dip and valley, skimming his large palm over my curves. There’s something both erotic and innocent in his movements, and I allow him this small moment of pleasure that seems to fascinate him.

He feasts his eyes on me, and when he drags the cloth over my breasts, mine shutter at the dizzy sensation as the soft cotton glides over my puckered nipples.

I’ve always had larger breasts, for as small as my frame is, ones that make me feel heavy and clumsy, but Six seems rapt by them. Perhaps it’s the rapid rise and fall of them with my hastened breaths that break his momentary trance. He studies my reaction, imparting the same attention to the other breast, before trailing the cloth over my shoulder and down my arm.

To my forearm.

Pausing his exploration, he stares down at my scar there, and the pad of his thumb drifts over the raised skin. His eyes flick to mine, brows upturned with what I surmise as concern, but I shake my head.

“I don’t remember how it happened.”

Releasing my arm, he lowers to his knees before me, just outside the shower stall. Dragging the washcloth over my belly with one hand, the other grips the back of my thigh and when he lifts my leg, spreading me open for him, the first pangs of embarrassment strike.