Page 14 of Scarlet Thorns
My God.
The candlelight plays across his chest, illuminating a canvas of ink and muscle that makes my mouth go dry. His shoulders are broad enough to block out the rest of the room, tapering down to a waist that speaks of discipline and control.But it’s the tattoos that steal my breath— intricate Russian script wrapping around his ribs, disappearing beneath the towel’s edge. A hawk spreads its wings across his left pectoral, feathers so detailed I can almost feel them beneath my fingertips.
His abs aren’t the gym-sculpted perfection Stanley obsesses over. These are working muscles, carved from something harder than vanity. A scar cuts through the ink near his hip— pale against bronze skin— and somehow it only adds to his raw magnetism.
More tattoos emerge as he crosses the room: geometric patterns down his right arm, something that might be prison markings on his knuckles. This is a body that tells stories I’ll never hear, that’s survived things I can’t imagine.
The towel sits dangerously low, revealing that V of muscle that makes coherent thought impossible. My pulse pounds in places I forgot existed. Stanley’s body is a monument to supplements and personal trainers. This man’s body is a weapon, honed and marked by actual life.
“Holy hell,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
He moves with the kind of controlled precision that suggests either military training or something darker. When he settles into the chair across from me, the air between us sparks with electricity I’ve never experienced. Every cell in my body is suddenly awake, aware, humming with anticipation.
“Who are you?” The question tumbles out before I remember the rules.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed despite the mask. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, accented with something Eastern European that makes my spine tingle.
“You’re sad.” It’s not a question. “What hurts you?”
The directness catches me off guard. No small talk, no pretense, no games. Just recognition of something I thought I was hiding successfully.
“I… um… I—” I start to deflect, to minimize, to perform the dance I’ve perfected over months of not wanting to burden anyone with my problems.
“You have thirty minutes,” he says simply. “Speak.”
Something in his tone— command and invitation wrapped together— unlocks something inside me. Maybe it’s the anonymity, or the whiskey still warming my blood, or the way he’s looking at me like my words actually matter. But suddenly, I’m talking.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I begin, and once I start, I can’t stop. The words pour out like water through a broken dam— Stanley’s jealousy, his cheating, the way he’s made me question my own reality. The health issues I can’t explain or escape. The loneliness of being dismissed by the person who’s supposed to care most.
I don’t use names. Some survival instinct keeps me from revealing too much. But emotionally, I strip bare, sharing fears and frustrations I’ve never spoken aloud.
He listens without interruption, without judgment, without trying to fix or minimize or redirect. He just… receives. Everything I give him, he takes seriously, treating my pain like it matters.
“My boyfriend thinks I’m lying about being sick,” I hear myself saying. “He thinks phantom pain is more believable than the possibility that I’m actually suffering. And the worst part? Sometimes I wonder if he’s right. If maybe I am making it worse than it is because I’m desperate for someone to care.”
The stranger’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes— anger, maybe, or recognition.
“Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real,” he says so quietly I have to strain to catch his voice. “Men who dismiss what they can’t see are cowards.”
The depth of his words leave me reeling— not painful, but stunning in their absolute certainty. When was the last time someone defended me without knowing all the details? When was the last time someone took my side without question?
I keep talking, spilling weeks of accumulated hurt and frustration. About feeling invisible in my own relationship. About the fear that something is seriously wrong with my body and no one believes me enough to help me figure it out. About the crushing loneliness of loving someone who sees my needs as inconvenience.
“And on top of it all, he’s the one who cheated on me… with his last girlfriend. Can you believe that?” The admission makes my chest tighten, although not with pain, but with outrage at the unfairness of it all.
He makes a sound low in his throat, and I realize that this stranger is offering something Stanley never did— the simple gift of being heard.
When I finally run out of words, silence settles between us. Not awkward or heavy, but peaceful. Like we’ve both exhaled something we’d been holding too long.
He stands slowly, moves toward my chair with the same careful precision. My breath catches as I watch him come close, almost closing the distance between us.
He reaches out, fingers barely grazing my cheek where tears have tracked through the mask. The touch is reverent, tender, electric. Not sexual exactly, but intimate in a way that has nothing to do with physical contact.
This close, it’s hard to ignore his body’s response to our proximity— his cock is jutting against the thick towel around his waist. He’s making no effort to hide it, but also no move to acton it. He wants me, that much is clear, but he’s holding himself in perfect check. The restraint is somehow more arousing than aggression would be.
We stare at each other through our masks, breath mingling in the small space between us. I want to memorize this moment— the weight of his gaze, the heat of his skin, the way I feel both safe and on the edge of something unthinkably dangerous.
Then, without a word, he turns and leaves.
