grabbed orange chips that were near her feet. He saw a few of the raised marks on her mocha arm. According to reports, her right arm had sustained nerve damage, making full range of motion difficult.
Nefertiti’s hoarse voice rose as she sang. She turned ever so slightly as she placed a few chips on the floor, then reached back for additional chips.
The glimpse he caught of the tracks that bastard had left on her face made him gasp. Furious, he backed out the room quickly, away from what Butch had done. He had to escape before the rage consumed him.
In his room, he sat on the edge of his bed and lowered his face into his palms. Thank God she didn’t see my reaction. Though he’d seen Nefertiti before her surgeries, seeing her scars brought back the horrors of those first few weeks. He’d never been so scared in his life. If she had died… He shook his head. Thank you, God, for saving my beauty.
A nervous chuckle escaped him. Before Nefertiti was attacked, he hadn’t prayed in so many years he couldn’t remember. Now he found himself praying and thanking God regularly, and he had no intention to return to his old ways.
I sure as hell can’t run out of the room when she unveils. He lay back on the bed and stared at the black ceiling. The darkness of the room comforted him. He forced his mind to push away his anger at Butch and bring Nefertiti forth. Even with the scars, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He chuckled. Damn, I’m whipped.
The marks on her right cheek reminded him of the tattooing he’d seen on members of some village in Africa on the Discovery Channel . What the hell was the name of that tribe? Man, did they have some fine women.
He smiled. Maybe we should honeymoon in Africa. He gave himself a few minutes to adjust to how Nefertiti would look from now on. Instead of focusing on his anger at Butch for hurting her, he focused on his love for her, her kindness, and her beauty—both inside and out.
When he entered her room, again after knocking and calling her name, he went straight to the sketches littering the carpet. The mess she was making in the sitting area would probably take weeks of work before anything looked familiar to his untrained eye. The music selection had switched to Santana, and she sang along in Spanish.
He smoothed out one of the crumpled pages. Using colored pencils, she’d sketched a sun setting or rising. He couldn’t really tell which, but knowing her affinity for the setting sun, he assumed it was. Of her various types of sculptures, paintings, and sketches, he always liked her chalk sketches the best.
“Oh my God!”
Her voice startled him. He turned in time to see her cover her face and run to her nightstand for her veil.
“What are you doing in here?”
He returned to the sketches, but he had seen more of the scarring on her inner arms, neck and chest area. Anger rose in him again, but he suppressed it. She had enough anger of her own to deal with.
He flattened another of her sketches out on the floor. “Why did you crumple these up? They’re good.”
The music lowered, then he heard her walk across the carpet toward him in her bare feet.
“I don’t like them. My stroke is off.”
As he glanced over his shoulder, she turned away. “Stay facing forward. Since someone intruded in my space,” she teased, “I only had time to cover my face. I’d hate to scare you off.”
“Don’t project your feelings about your scars onto me.” He picked up another sketch. “If you don’t want these, can I have them?” She didn’t answer. “Bruce to Nefertiti.” He displayed the sketches. “Can I have these?”
She stood with her arms folded over her chest and confusion in her eyes.
“Well, since you’ve forgotten how to speak, I’ll take your silence as a yes.” He bowed his head graciously. “Thank you for the sketches.” He stacked them. “Man, has it been a long day. You think a brotha can get one of those massages you were
Nefertiti’s hoarse voice rose as she sang. She turned ever so slightly as she placed a few chips on the floor, then reached back for additional chips.
The glimpse he caught of the tracks that bastard had left on her face made him gasp. Furious, he backed out the room quickly, away from what Butch had done. He had to escape before the rage consumed him.
In his room, he sat on the edge of his bed and lowered his face into his palms. Thank God she didn’t see my reaction. Though he’d seen Nefertiti before her surgeries, seeing her scars brought back the horrors of those first few weeks. He’d never been so scared in his life. If she had died… He shook his head. Thank you, God, for saving my beauty.
A nervous chuckle escaped him. Before Nefertiti was attacked, he hadn’t prayed in so many years he couldn’t remember. Now he found himself praying and thanking God regularly, and he had no intention to return to his old ways.
I sure as hell can’t run out of the room when she unveils. He lay back on the bed and stared at the black ceiling. The darkness of the room comforted him. He forced his mind to push away his anger at Butch and bring Nefertiti forth. Even with the scars, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He chuckled. Damn, I’m whipped.
The marks on her right cheek reminded him of the tattooing he’d seen on members of some village in Africa on the Discovery Channel . What the hell was the name of that tribe? Man, did they have some fine women.
He smiled. Maybe we should honeymoon in Africa. He gave himself a few minutes to adjust to how Nefertiti would look from now on. Instead of focusing on his anger at Butch for hurting her, he focused on his love for her, her kindness, and her beauty—both inside and out.
When he entered her room, again after knocking and calling her name, he went straight to the sketches littering the carpet. The mess she was making in the sitting area would probably take weeks of work before anything looked familiar to his untrained eye. The music selection had switched to Santana, and she sang along in Spanish.
He smoothed out one of the crumpled pages. Using colored pencils, she’d sketched a sun setting or rising. He couldn’t really tell which, but knowing her affinity for the setting sun, he assumed it was. Of her various types of sculptures, paintings, and sketches, he always liked her chalk sketches the best.
“Oh my God!”
Her voice startled him. He turned in time to see her cover her face and run to her nightstand for her veil.
“What are you doing in here?”
He returned to the sketches, but he had seen more of the scarring on her inner arms, neck and chest area. Anger rose in him again, but he suppressed it. She had enough anger of her own to deal with.
He flattened another of her sketches out on the floor. “Why did you crumple these up? They’re good.”
The music lowered, then he heard her walk across the carpet toward him in her bare feet.
“I don’t like them. My stroke is off.”
As he glanced over his shoulder, she turned away. “Stay facing forward. Since someone intruded in my space,” she teased, “I only had time to cover my face. I’d hate to scare you off.”
“Don’t project your feelings about your scars onto me.” He picked up another sketch. “If you don’t want these, can I have them?” She didn’t answer. “Bruce to Nefertiti.” He displayed the sketches. “Can I have these?”
She stood with her arms folded over her chest and confusion in her eyes.
“Well, since you’ve forgotten how to speak, I’ll take your silence as a yes.” He bowed his head graciously. “Thank you for the sketches.” He stacked them. “Man, has it been a long day. You think a brotha can get one of those massages you were
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