Page 17 of Shades of Scars

The sound of shoes scuffing on hardwood draws my attention to a doorway I hadn’t yet noticed just behind the sectional. A second later, Mr. Madden ducks into the living room, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of him.

He’s just as magnificent as I remember. He reminds me of every viking warrior hero in the romance books I love to read. Muscles ripple across every inch of his body when he moves with predator grace. Colorful tattoos decorate both of his arms peeking out from the half sleeves of the tight black shirt he’s wearing.

His white blonde hair is shaved short on the sides and left long on top the strands woven into intricate braids cascading down to reach his shoulder blades. He also has a scar dissecting his right eyebrow, narrowly avoiding the corner of his eye, before ending at his temple.

Dark, ice blue eyes that remind me of the night sky lock onto me, and he freezes after taking a few steps into the living room. His shoulders stiffen, unsure how to react upon seeing me awake for a split second.

Then, he’s marching towards me with purpose. I barely refrain from flinching when he rounds the sectional until he’s two feet away. He crouches down to get eye level with me, the fathomless depths of his eyes swirling with emotions I can’t get a proper read on. He smells so damn good it hurts, and I find myself leaning towards him like I had with Caito in his car before.

It’s like I’m a moth and he’s the searing hot flame. I have absolutely no sense of apprehension or danger. He, too, leans towards me like he can’t quite help himself. We’re so close that he could kiss me if he really wanted to.

We stay like that for such a long time, the both of us just staring into each other’s eyes like we’re afraid that if we blink, one of us might disappear without a trace.

I can tell it takes him an immense amount of control to lean back away from me. Far enough that I can breathe again without feeling like my lungs are about to combust. I suck in his scent,groaning softly in response when it shoots right to my already throbbing core.

Just as I’m about to launch myself at him, he clears his throat and speaks, breaking the spell entirely. “Are you hungry?” It’s such an odd question to ask that it throws me off enough that I pull myself further back from him.

My brow furrows. “I’m sorry. Can you tell me what happened?” I remember passing out, but that’s the last thing I can recall.

Mr. Madden’s dark gaze softens on me, and he nods. He rises back to his full height before offering me a hand up. I make sure I give him the hand not attached to the arm that’s steady throbbing is growing worse, and he carefully helps me to stand.

I sway a little once I’m on my feet, and he places a respectful palm against my hip to ground me so I don’t fall over and hurt myself more than I already am. He’s patient while I wait for the dizziness to subside, and when I meet his eyes, he has a shield shuttered over his emotions. It should send alarm bells ringing in my head, but it doesn’t.

Nothing about this man makes me want to bolt in the other direction.

And that’s surely about to become a huge fucking problem for me.

“We think you have a concussion.” He responds, his tone also unreadable. I nod. That makes sense. I’d hit my head pretty hard on the concrete during the attack. “We had a trusted doctor look you over. I promise we only removed your sweater because he needed to get a better look. Nothing else was removed.”

“I believe you.” My voice is so quiet, I’m not sure he hears me for a moment, but then his fingers flex against my hip.

“We can take you to get properly looked over in a little bit. Why don’t you come to the kitchen? Lark made dinner, and Ithink it might be time we talk.” He doesn’t demand anything from me. He leaves it all open for me to refuse.

Problem is, I don’twantto.

“Okay.” I murmur, and then allow him to keep his hand in mine while he leads me out of the living room, back through the doorway he’d just come through. As we trail down the hall, I start to pick up the scents of roasted meats and other delicious things, and my stomach lets out an untimely growl, just as we duck into the expansive kitchen. I didn’t even realize I’d left behind my sweatshirt until then.

Fucking hell…

I startle when laughter sounds from a beautiful alpha standing at the stove nearby. “I take that howling stomach as a sign that the omega is hungry.” His smile is brilliant, and he turns his body to face me fully where Mr. Madden has brought us to a halt.

He’s devastatingly gorgeous in that golden retriever type way. His sandy blonde hair with streaks of silver and gold throughout the strands is shaggy, curling around his ears and giving off a boyish impression of him. Steel blue eyes meet mine and steal the breath right out of my lungs. They twinkle like bright stars behind thick framed, purple glasses.

He’s wearing a pink apron that saysKiss the Chefthat would’ve otherwise made me laugh if I hadn’t been so damn captivated by his looks. I blush, which is practically unheard of for me, when my stomach lets out another obnoxious growl just as a timer goes off.

His smile is radiant as he flicks off the alarm on his phone resting beside the stove, then bends over to pull a steaming pan covered in tin foil out of the oven. I can’t help but admire his ass in the low slung gray sweatpants he has on when he does so.

Mr. Madden chuckles softly beside me, our hands still clasped together, and the sound makes a shudder ripple downmy spine. “Come.” He gently guides me over to a long, solid oak dining table to the right hand side of the kitchen that’s already set with various other dishes. Five place settings are spaced around the table, and he pulls out a chair for a spot that’ll put my back to the wall.

I don’t mention how grateful I am for that particular insight when I lower myself down into the chair and he pushes it in for me.

It isn’t until I’m settled in the seat that I notice Caito sitting at the end of the table to my right. Our gazes collide like the opposite ends of two magnets, and I stop breathing for a second or two at the sight of him. He’s lounging back in the chair as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, one forearm resting on the arm, and the other elbow down while he clutches a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

I watch, utterly captivated, as he brings the glass to his lips. They part, and the liquid flows over his tongue like smooth honey. His Adam’s apple bobs with two swallows before he lowers the glass again. Not for a second does he take his eyes off of me. Why is watching a man take a drink of liquor so damn hot?

“Are you thirsty,mo chroí?” That rich accent of his that I can’t quite place flows over me when he uses the foreign words, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from launching myself across the table to climb him like a tree.

Holy fucking hell.

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