I shut the door behind me and a moment later hear a soft thud. Like she’s thrown a pillow at it.
Good.
Her spirit is alive and well.
“Shit.” I drop the needle and stick my middle finger into my mouth, lightly sucking the pain away.
Artem gives a light chuckle from his chair in the corner of the living area.
“It’s not funny.” I pull my finger out to assess the damage.
“That’s the third time you’ve pricked yourself since you started.” He puts aside his phone, leaving it on the coffee table and makes his way over to me. “Let me see.”
“It’s a small needle prick. I’m fine.” But then I contradict myself by sticking my finger back in my mouth. It’s throbbing.
He sinks down to his haunches and places his hands on my knees, looking up at me. Amusement dances in his eyes. He’s at least trying to keep himself from laughing at my expense.
“You like to see me hurt,” I mutter.
He raises an eyebrow. “There are a lot of things I like to see when it comes to you, but hurt isn’t one of them. Now let me see.” He tugs my hand from my mouth and brings my hand up between us to inspect it.
“It’s not bad; it just hurts.”
“I can see why.” He flicks his gaze to me. “You’ve been using your finger as a pincushion.”
I sigh. He’s not wrong. “I’m still getting used to holding my hand in the right place.”
“When you hold your work in your left hand, curl your fingers around the loop and use only your right hand to do all of the needlework. You don’t need to use your left hand at all, just your right.” He takes the small hoop from my lap. “Like this.”
Easily he picks up the thin needle and works it through the cloth. I watch as his thick fingers make several stitches effortlessly, his left hand holding the small loop. No fingers being pricked here.
“You know how to do needlepoint?”
He grins. “My mother worked at a seamstress shop when I was young. When she wasn’t mending or making clothes, she liked embroidery.”
I accept the loop back when he offers it and lay in my lap. “My mom tried teaching me, but I always thought it was boring. She said it was a good stress reliever.”
“Stress relief? You always look more stressed when you work on your project late at night.” He chuckles.
“You know it’s creepy that you were watching me, right?” I put the needlepoint aside.
“I was protecting you.” He moves to sit on the coffee table edge, making the wood creak beneath his hulking weight.
The man is made of pure titanium steel, how any simple wood furniture can hold him boggles me.
“By watching me needlepoint in bed?” I challenge.
He picks up my hand again, running his thumb over the pad of my injured finger. “You were in grave danger almost every night.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious.” I yank my hand away. “I’ve never heard you talk about your mother before, or any of your family.”
His amusement fades at the edges.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I say softly when the hurt in his eyes makes my chest tighten. I know that pain. Loss and grief.
He rests his hands on my knees, stilling my fidgeting. “My father left when I was too young to remember him. My mother remarried when I was around seven. That man was my father, but he died in a crash when I was twelve. My mother worked as a seamstress when she wasn’t working at the cafe on the corner from our apartment. I was in charge of watching my sisters.”
“You have sisters?” I’ve known him for years and never have I heard him mention any family. He’s probably as overbearing with them as my own brothers are with me.