Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161615 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 539(@300wpm)
“The detangling.”
“It’s not just brushing out the knots,” she chuckled. “You separate the curls, piece by piece. You treat them gentle. You respect them.”
Respect them.
She glanced at me in the mirror. “My hair is 4C. It’s the tightest curl pattern—tiny coils, dense, soft like cotton.”
I shifted my focus back to her hands.
“A lot of people talk bad about 4C hair. Lots of complaints. They say it’s hard to manage, too thick, too much work.” Her voice softened as she twisted a section between her fingers. “But it’s not bad hair. It’s just misunderstood. It just needs care and patience. That’s all.”
I’d never heard of hair types before, never imagined there were entire systems, patterns, and numbers to describe something so personal.
Even more I didn’t realize that there were hair types that would be considered good or bad.
“When I was younger,” she continued, “people used to make jokes about hair like mine. The straighter it was, the prettier they thought you were. I used to do everything I could to straighten my hair and blend in with the crowd. Belong.”
I couldn’t even imagine my Tiger desperately doing things to fit in. She’d entered my world like it already belonged to her. There had been nothing timid about her—no apology in the way she took up space, no hesitation in her voice when she spoke.
Even sitting there in just a towel and doing her hair, Nyomi carried herself like a woman who’d survived everything meant to break her and turned it into armor.
When one section was free of tangles, she twisted and pinned it neatly to the side. “There’s been several natural hair movements that rose among Black women. More and more of us see our different hair types as beautiful.”
She put down the comb, poured a dot of oil in her hands, went back to that section, unpinned, and began to braid it.
I widened my eyes.
Her fingers flew—swift, sure, graceful. Just like that, the braid formed evenly. “For some, detangling feels like a chore, and I get it. But for me, it’s self-care. It’s peace. I get to slow down, breathe, and show myself love. And for really rough months, every knot I undo feels like healing.”
I was so goddamn fascinated.
She looked over her shoulder and winked. “If you have something else to do you can—”
“Absolutely not. I must see this to the end.”
“Why?”
“It feels like I’m watching a temple ceremony.”
Her laughter filled the room, warm and unguarded, but I meant every word.
More time passed, and I remained in the doorway as her fingers moved through her hair with slow precision, dividing into sections, smoothing oil, detangling, and then braiding.
One would have thought my cock would have gone down, but it didn’t. The greedy length remained hard.
Seeing Nyomi detangle and braid her hair shouldn’t have affected me the way it did, yet lust stirred inside my core.
Had the erection remained from just the sight of her patience with the task?
Or was it the tenderness of her fingers moving through her own hair, that made me horny?
Perhaps, the reason was biological?
Psychological?
Instinct or just madness?
Maybe it was some primitive recognition buried deep in my DNA.
And then suddenly. . .I imagined my Tiger’s hands guiding our daughter’s smaller hands through the same detangling process one day.
And that vision—uninvited and raw—set my pulse racing.
More heat surged through me.
I didn’t know why detangling hair could make me think about life and legacy. But in that moment, watching the woman I loved care for herself with such grace, every cell in me ached with the same message—I’m definitely getting her pregnant before the end of this war.
I smiled.
If the spy didn't kill us first.
The thought came unbidden, cold water on hot coals. Someone in my organization was trying to feed my father information. Someone close enough to know our movements, our plans, our vulnerabilities.
Someone who could reach Nyomi if I weren’t careful.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the woman in front of me, detangling her hair with the same patience she showed herself.
Tomorrow, she'd start hunting.
Tomorrow, we'd find the rat.
But today, I'd just watch her exist.
We’ll get the spy.
Then I remembered something that my mother said to me at my birthday party that my brother had surprised me with. It had come out of nowhere. I’d been about to leave with two women who I planned to fuck and share with Hiro.
And she’d frowned, touched my arm, and whispered,
“The way a woman cares for her hair reveals her spirit.”
I never understood what she meant by that. I’d muttered back that their hair was fine.
Honestly, I’d tagged it all as unimportant female things.
Now I wished my mother were alive so I could tell her I finally understood.
She hadn't been talking about vanity or beauty routines. She'd been trying to teach me how to recognize a wife. A woman who tended to herself with such care that she would bring that same devotion to everything she touched.