Page 17 of Beneath the Scars

So, instead, I vow to myself that I'll live in the moment and enjoy the here and now with him while I can.

"Do you enjoy what you do?" Byran asks, his fingers now tracing lazy patterns on my hips.

"Hmmm," I hum, enjoying the ghostlike touch. After all of Byron's careful loving, my hunger has temporarily been sated. "Very much. I was going to be a surgeon, but I quickly found an intense dislike for the hard personalities that filled the resident training program at the hospital. I was in the middle of a mental meltdown in one of the basement corridors—one of the few places I found peace—when Karl found me. In his special way, he told me about a job available in the morgue, and before I knew what I was doing, I was figuring out what I needed to do to switch specialties."

"And you're happy with the change," he says more than he asks, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Very much," I answer anyway before turning in his embrace. I'm facing him before pushing away so I can look him in the eyes. "And you? Do you enjoy hunting down the bad guys and putting them away? Isn't that like every little boy's dream, ever?" I volley the question back at him, trying to keep things light and jovial.

It backfires, and Byron frowns. He tucks one of my messy curls behind my ear. "Not always," he mutters before carefully kissing me. "Sometimes having to dig into the psyche of a deranged serial killer has some negative side effects. And the job involves an insane amount of travel, which I'm kind of getting sick of, if I'm being honest."

I keep a careful leash on the hope that wants to run rampant at his words. He's not professing his undying love or promising to stay forever.

But he could be. If you just give him a chance.

Choosing to ignore my stupid subconscious Becky voice for once, I cuddle into his chest, enjoying the sound of his heartbeat. "I can only imagine. I've never gone anywhere, though. I have lived in Portland since I started at the university, and before that, I only ever lived in the same hometown."

"That must have been nice," he whispers before kissing the top of my head and pulling me in tight.

Not really.But I can't push the words out. I'm not sure if I have the courage to share something so personal with him. I wish I could push past the fear and tell him about my dad and my childhood, as I shared with Jayne.

"Hmmm," I respond instead of giving him the answer I want to.

"We should probably get some sleep," he mutters against my hair, his fingers digging into my waist where he's holding on.

My laughter fills the room as I try to cuddle in deeper, even if it isn't actually physically possible.

"I think that ship has sailed, Supervisory Special Agent Scott. At this point, we might as well order some breakfast from room service and watch the sun come up in a few hours."

"I could have you for breakfast instead." He huffs out a laugh. "Although I'm definitely tapped out and way too old to be ready for yet another round so soon."

"I never looked at the files," I realize, trying to push up from the bed, but he holds me tight.

"Lily, baby. The files can wait. As much as I'd like your opinion and could do with a fresh lead, it was an excuse to see you again.

My cheeks heat up with embarrassment, and I'm grateful he can't see me as I worry my bottom lip between my teeth.

"I don't get it," I push out the words past the lump in my throat.

"Get what, baby?" he asks, his fingers running through my hair again, soothing the ravaged edges of my self-confidence.

"Why were you so eager to see me again? I'm not an idiot, By. I look at myself in the mirror and know what others see when they look at me." The words are too personal, too close to the deep, dark heart of me that I am too scared to share with him, but I feel safe in his embrace. Safe in a way I don't understand and find unable to describe.

He pulls away, encouraging me to lie down on the pillow he's been hogging most of the time.

"Do you really see yourself? Or do you only notice what youthinkothers see?"

My brows furrow in question, and his fingers trace the frown, smoothing it out before he moves to my cheekbone, gently touching the radiating lines.

"All you see is this scar, and it makes me so sad. When I look at you, do you know what I see?" He strokes my cheek softly.

"Damaged goods." The words are out before I can stop them, and I'm nearly undone by his look of utter devastation.

"Oh, my poor baby," he whispers before carefully kissing the mark on my face. "Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?"

I do. So much. But I'm so scared of what it will do to me when he tells me. I've already gotten so attached to this man with very little encouragement from him, and if he continues to be absolute perfection, I'll be lost.

"When I look at you, I see beneath the scars. I see the graceful, gentle, kind person you are beneath that. I see the woman that is so fiercely protective of the victims on her table that she's willing to take on an unfamiliar asshole who dares to make her wait. The woman who gets upset for perceived injustices but also knows how to forgive and move forward. I'm in awe of the way you smile, despite what has obviously been a hard life, and I love that regardless of how you feel about yourself, you still formed deep connections with the people you work with."

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