Page 51

I smile. “Hair isn’t willow.”

“No.”

“And pulling hurts.”

His gaze stays on mine. “I will not pull.”

I turn my back to him. “Okay.”

He doesn’t touch me immediately.

“Go ahead,” I say.

His fingers move slowly through my hair, not combing exactly, but feeling where the strands lie and where they tangle. When he finds a small knot near the ends, he works it loose with his fingertips instead of tugging.

I stop breathing for a second.

“How are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Not ripping half my hair out.”

He pauses. “Would that be bad?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

“Then I will not.”

“Excellent policy.”

His hands move again.

I expected the willow of his fingers to feel rough. It doesn’t. The finer strands along his fingertips are smooth and warm, flexible enough to slide against my scalp without scratching.

He separates my hair into sections. I know the moment he begins braiding.

Three pieces cross, tighten, cross again. His hands move with a certainty he rarely has anywhere else in the human world. He doesn’t hesitate over which strand comes next. His hands know.

A gentle pull travels across my scalp, then another. It feels good, too good, and the tension of the morning begins to loosen from the base of my neck before I give it permission.

Locke stops.

“Too tight?”

The question is close to my ear.

My fingers curl at my sides.

“No.”

He waits.

“No,” I say again, because the first one came out strange. “It’s good.”

His hands resume. I close my eyes. That is probably a mistake too.

With my eyes closed, I notice every touch more clearly. His knuckles brush the back of my neck when he gathers a section near my nape. One fingertip slides behind my ear. The heel of his hand rests briefly against the side of my head while he changes his grip.