Page 2 of Sinful Stolen Knight
“Never. It’s going to look hot as fuck. Which is exactly what I’m worried about.”
“You’re going to help me, yeah?”
She chuckles. “Of course. No offence, you may be an artist but your make-up skills suck and they’re going to require perfection tonight.”
“No pressure.”
Blakely gestures toward the dressing table, and after shoving off a pile of bras, I lower my arse down on the stool.
“Make me look different. If I catch my reflection tonight, I want to look like someone else.”
“You got it, kid,” she agrees as she turns the curling iron on and reaches for the hairbrush.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a bit of a tomboy. While my sister was learning to apply make-up, I was drawing. Losing myself in an entirely different world in the hope it would help me to forget my real one.
Over the years, I’ve picked up the basics from her, but I don’t really have any desire to make use of them. I’m happy being just me. Okay, so happy might be pushing it.
I sit there watching Blakely in the mirror as she works on my hair, leaving thick red curls hanging around my shoulders before she begins pinning it up, working with precision to create the perfect up-do. As she works, she seems to forget how sick she is, and while I know that she’ll pay for it once the excitement of making me up wears off, I love that I can give her this reprieve. Even if she is breathing her germs all over me. The two of us have always shared everything so I guess this cold that’s currently bringing her to her knees shouldn’t be any different.
By the time my hair is in place, all of it is elegantly pinned into a fancy bun leaving only a few wavy tendrils hanging around my face, I stare at myself in shock. I look different already. It’s nothing I would ever do myself—not that I would know how to do it—but it’s so pretty.
Next, she pulls out her colossal make-up collection and goes to town on my face. Her brows pinched in concentration the entire time as if she’s painting a masterpiece.
“Ta-da,” she finally announces before coughing up a storm again.
Spinning around on the stool, I gasp as my reflection stares back at me.
I know I told her to make me look like someone else but Jesus.
“What do you think?” Blakely asks once she’s recovered and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I… um… I look beautiful.”
“Ev, you’re always beautiful.”
I snort a laugh. Out of the two of us, she’s the beautiful one. I’m the average one. If it weren’t for Blakley, no one would know I exist at school. It might be how I like it, but it can be lonely as hell.
“Don’t do that,” she warns. “You’re stunning, and any guy out there would be lucky to have you.”
“Too bad for them that I don’t want them, then.”
“You can fight it all you like, one day—”
“Enough,” I say, holding my hands up in surrender. If we’ve had this argument once then we’ve had it a hundred times.
My sister is a romantic at heart despite her career choice. Her life might appear very different, but deep down all she wants is a man to sweep her off her feet, wine and dine her, and show her that she’s the only woman in the world he sees.
It’s cute. I kinda wish I had the same fantasy where everything can be fixed with love.
But it’s bullshit. She knows that—even if she won’t admit it—I know that. Hell, even our little brother knows that.
It’s a fantasy. It doesn’t exist.
No man is going to come in and save us from this shitty situation. It is our lives. It has always been our lives and it will always be our lives.
And with that little depressing pep talk, I push to my feet and step closer to my horrifying outfit.
I glance at my sister as she rests back on our bed with her perfect hourglass figure, full breasts and curvy hips.