Page 81

At the jerk of his head, I set my book aside and follow him into the bathroom. On the sink, he’s laid out shaving items he must’ve scrounged from the cupboards, and a pair of scissors, which he hands to me.

“Have you cut hair before?”

“I have. My brother’s.” Over the years, I’ve grown quite good at it, even trimming my own, when necessary.

“Do what you have to. I prefer down to the skin.” Though, with his clean-shaven face, the longer hair looks good on him.

He kneels down to the floor in front of me, and still he’s at neck-level. Two of me could fit in the span of his broad shoulders, and each of his arms is about the size of my thighs. Clearing his throat, he seems to be aware that lowering his gaze a bit puts his sights on my breasts, and as though he doesn’t know where to look, he glances to the side before settling somewhere along my collarbone.

I slip my fingers through the scissor holes and nab the comb from the sink, my breasts brushing against his shoulder with my reach. He flinches and clears his throat again. The idea that this enormous, beastly man seems to be entirely uncomfortable with my touch brings a smile to my face.

Standing before him again, I gather up a section of long hair and go to work, trimming and cutting, letting strands of hair fall to the floor around him. He remains still as a statue, the unwavering stance of a soldier my father would’ve praised, never moving, or saying a word, while I circle him, snipping away. By the time I’ve finished, his hair is short, a slight bit more than a buzzcut, and longer on top, as well. Enough to run fingers through without catching on anything.

Back at Szolen, if he were a Legion officer, the women there would probably fall at his feet, as handsome and fit as he is when cleaned up. They’d have fawned over his golden eyes and big muscles like cats in heat.

Even with as much resentment as I still harbor toward him, I can’t help but notice it myself. With warmth in my cheeks, I look away and gather up the fallen bits of hair.

When he stands to brush the snippings from his skin, I’m once again greeted by the small stretch of towel covering his bulging groin.

In an effort to distract my attention, I shuffle out of the bathroom to grab the broom I used earlier to sweep the kitchen floor, and when I return, he reaches for it.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the broom from my grasp, inadvertently touching my hand.

“Of course.” Now I’m the one clearing my throat with discomfort, while he sweeps up the last of his hair, and I head back to the living room, swapping books, yet again, for Pride and Prejudice.

Titus disposes of the hair into the fireplace, and disappears around the corner. When he reemerges, he’s carrying a blanket, which he dumps in front of the fireplace, over the bear rug. “You can have the beds.”

“You’d prefer the floor?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m just going to stay to read for a while?”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

From the stack of wood he brought in earlier, Titus grabs one of the long branches and the knife he’s used the last couple of days, and plops down in front of the fire, still wearing that damn towel. Thankfully, he keeps his business end facing away, while he carves the tip of the branch into what will undoubtedly be a weapon, or meat skewer, from the looks of it, and I take my seat with the book still propped to the first page.

I settle in to read, skimming through the first page of Mr. Bennet and his wife’s exchange over the single, wealthy, newly-arrived bachelor in the neighborhood, and find my gaze wandering over the top of the pages, distracted by the man sat on the floor beside the fire. Even relaxed, Titus looks like a beast, with his steel biceps that hardly flex as he sits carving the wood.

Stop, I mentally chide myself, and go back to my reading. Another page, about the Bennet’s five daughters, morphs into the view of Titus’s lean, perfectly-arched abs, over which he bends, studying his work in silence. My fingers practically tingle with the urge to touch every ridge and I drop the book in my lap.

“Damn it!” The curse arrives as a whisper, and as Titus turns, a jolt of embarrassment heats my cheeks, as I swipe up the book. The curiosity written on his face disappears behind the now-crinkled pages when I attempt to hide. “Sorry … this stupid book.”

“What’s it about?”

“A stubborn woman.”

Snorting a laugh, he rests his elbow on his knee. “And you find that stupid? Seems like a match for you.”

“And you would be the brooding, irascible browbeater.”

Frowning, as though to prove my point, he looks back to his carving. “You use strange words.”

“If you picked up a book on occasion, you’d probably know their meaning.” My jibe is only meant in fun, but at the swirl of shame in his eyes when he glances back at me again, I suddenly regret saying it.

“I can’t read.”

“At all?”