I gave her a choice. She’ll either tell me about the scar tonight, or she’ll show it to me. I’ve already seen it, so I’m not surprised when she reaches for the hem of her shirt and lifts it upward.
It’s an agonizingly slow reveal. Her arms tremble, and her breathing quickens with each inch of bared skin. I ache to remove her hands and complete the task for her. But this is her milestone, a significant one if she hasn’t shown her body to another man in two years.
When the shirt clears her head and drops to the floor, I’m gifted with an arresting view of creamy flawless skin and full globes of flesh overflowing from a pink lace bra. Her tiny waist curves in like an hourglass, the jeans low and snug on her narrow hips.
Expressionless, she gathers her hair over one shoulder and twists it into a golden rope down her chest.
“You’re exquisite,” I say in a guttural voice.
Her face falls. She closes her eyes, covers her quivering lips, and shakes her head. I don’t understand her reaction until she pivots and gives me her back.
A shocked sound claws up my throat, and I snap my mouth shut before it escapes. I don’t see the scar near her tailbone, not amid the war zone of welted flesh.
I can’t even begin to count how many puckered white marks riddle her shoulder blades and both sides of her spine. Her back is a soul-gutting battlefield of brutality, and low on her waist is the outlier, the scar I spotted in the kitchen. It’s separated from the rest as if whatever marred her back swung wide and wildly off to the side.
I have to remind myself to breathe. My vision blurs, and my head pounds with questions. Her injuries were neither accidental nor methodical. Someone punctured her over and over, viciously, intently, with a rancor and vehemence of passion.
My hands shake violently, and my gut coils with anguish. I need to say something, but I’m at a loss for words. She won’t want my pity, and by removing her shirt, she chose the option that frees her from answering my questions.
Then I’m hit with dumb realization. Someone attacked her back, and here I am, towering over her, behind her, more than twice her size, needlessly putting her in a vulnerable position.
With deep, even breaths, I slowly lower to my knees. A tremor skates up her spine. She wraps her arms around her torso and stands still. I hate the silence between us, but I keep my mouth shut, afraid I’ll spook her.
On my knees and eye-level with the lower points of her shoulder blades, I’m in arm’s reach of every part of her body. I start at her feet, lightly curling my fingers around her ankles.
She shifts slightly and tips her head forward, watching my hands. I glide them up the fronts of her legs, feathering my fingers over the denim as I touch my forehead to her back. She pulls in a ragged breath, holds it, and releases it with a gentle sigh.
An exhilarating rush of warmth fills my chest. She’s not running away, not shoving at my hands. This is the most I’ve ever touched her, and I don’t want to stop.
When my caresses reach the bare skin above her waistband, she shivers. I keep going, leaning back to skim my palms across her back. Some of the scars bump against my fingers, but most are smooth and soft to the touch. Her chest heaves faster, harder, as I stroke each wound. I’m so fucking proud of her for not jerking away.
I’m also insanely and inappropriately aroused. I can’t help it. She feels so damn warm and feminine and small in my hands. The impulse to trap her in my arms and fuck her to orgasm heats my muscles and fires my pulse. I want this woman at a primitive, carnal level, but I’m overcome with another stronger sensation, an emotion that goes so much deeper than sex. Possessiveness? Loyalty? Admiration? I feel all those things and more.
My fingers bump against the bra strap. I raise my head to watch the tension in her shoulders as I undo the hooks.
She doesn’t jerk when I slide the straps off her arms. Doesn’t flinch when I rub my hands up and down her back. Doesn’t so much as breathe when I caress each and every scar, trying and failing to count them all. There’s at least fifteen…twenty… I give up as my blood pressure rises with the need to avenge every strike that impaled her beautiful body.
Sliding my knees against the backs of her feet, I press against her tiny frame and wrap my hands around her hips. She’s so small my fingers meet at her navel. I could crush her without effort, and I know she knows this, which makes her cooperation profoundly significant.