Page 84 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I close the space between us and brush my lips against hers. It's gentle. Not the kiss I want to give her or the one that's been burning in my imagination. I'm holding back, mindful of her internal scars and Miller's verbal abuse. I force myself to go slow.

But damn, even this small taste is intoxicating.

She makes a soft sound against my mouth, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders. The room feels ten degrees warmer suddenly as her fingers tighten and she inches closer, pressing herself against me, seeking more contact.

I pull away, giving us both a moment to process that kiss.

When she sucks on her bottom lip, she looks ready to burn every boundary. "That was a sweet kiss, but I thought you wanted me?"

Yup. There went every boundary.

I cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through her soft hair, and draw her to me again. This time, I don't hold back. I capture her mouth, pouring every ounce of pent-up desire into the kiss.

There's alotof pent-up desire.

She moans, parting her lips and inviting me to explore deeper.

"I want you," I say against her lips. "I fucking want you."

She releases a small whimper as I run my tongue along hers and guide her back onto the couch. My hips settle between her thighs and I press my hardness against her center. I give her one teasing thrust as she clings to my shoulders.

As I press my chest against hers, feeling the rapid pattern of her breath, I bury my face against her neck, inhaling a sweet floral scent that makes my cock jerk. "Now that I've made my confession, what about yours? I want to hear how wet you are from—"

Tension ripples through her body a heartbeat before she jerks away, pushing against my chest with surprising force. "No. Stop." Her voice is sharp and panicked, escalating quickly to a borderline scream. "Stop. Get off! I can't. I can't—"

I'm on my feet instantly, backing away to give her space. The world drops away like I've stepped off an unmarked cliff, a sensation I haven't felt since that extraction in Kabul when our helicopter took fire. Only this time, the threat isn't external. It's whatever's happening in my chest, spreading outward like concussive damage.

Londyn curls into herself on the couch. She draws her knees to her chest to make herself impossibly small. The sobs come, low and ragged, tearing through her like they might break her apart. She rocks slightly, a self-soothing motion that somehow makes everything worse.

"I thought I could… I'm sorry. What you must think of me." The words spill out between gasps. "I'm just leading you on."

"Hey. You're not. It's okay." Desperation claws at my chest. What did I do? What did I miss? "Londyn, please, what happened?"

She doesn't seem to hear me. She's lost in turbulence. "I-I'm sorry. It's not you. This is me. My fault. You didn't do anything wrong." Her voice cracks, barely above a whisper. Her fingers twist into her hair, knuckles whitening as she pulls hard enough to hurt. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid, like she's drowning in air. It's like she's talking to someone else, someghost I can't see. "Why did I dress like that? They made me wear those clothes. But I… I wore revealing dresses to parties, didn't I? Sometimes I didn't wear panties. I made him…"

Everything in me goes still as the hairs along my arms prickle. "Your clothes? What do you mean?"

"They showed my body. Dee wore skimpy clothes. But I did too. I didn't wear panties because they pinch and there's lines. So that's why… that's why he did it. I should've worn panties. I needed more clothes. Then he wouldn't have—" She breaks into a sob as the pieces click into place with sickening clarity.

My insides erupt in white-hot fury as the truth reveals itself in her broken fragments.

"Is this about Alan Miller?" The name is poison on my tongue.

Londyn's head snaps up, eyes like two full moons. I don't need her to say it because the truth is written all over her face. In the terror, the shame, the hurt that has nowhere to hide except the hollows around her eyes and the heavy grooves cutting through her forehead.

Miller didn't just verbally abuse her. He violated her. He took something that wasn't his to take.

My fists clench at my sides as rage burns through my veins like acid. I want to find this man. I want to fly to South Africa and cause him agony for each tear on Londyn's face and every nightshe's spent afraid. I'll make him suffer for every ghost he left in her mind.

But Londyn—my Londyn—is breaking apart in front of me, and my anger does nothing to help her in this moment. I lower myself, squatting next to the couch so I'm at her eye level. I want to pull her into my arms and shelter her, to promise that nothing will ever hurt her again. But I don't know if my touch would help or harm right now. I don't know the right words. I don't know anything except that I'd trade my life to take away her suffering.

"Londyn, I—"

"Please go." Her voice is empty of everything that makes her herself. "Please go."

The request hits me hard and I sway on my heels. Not because it's unexpected, but because it's the last thing I want.

But this isn't about what I want. It's about what she needs. And I know, from this second onward, I'll give her anything she needs. I'll do anything she requests of me.

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