Page 268 of Fangs
“I’m sure. Your back hurtin’?”
She let out a breath, and her shoulders slumped a little.“Yeah.”
I glanced behind her at the bottle of oil on her dresser. “That it?” I gestured toward the bottle, and she nodded. I strode over and grabbed it, noting the orange flower petals floating in the clear oil.
“Calendula?” I asked, holding up the jar as I approached.
Her beautiful eyes widened. “Yeah.” She paused. “How did you know?”
“You made a shit ton of these this past winter. How would I not?”
She stared at me, her brow slightly furrowed like she was trying to figure something out.
“Alright, tell me what to do,” I added when she didn’t say anything.
She instructed me on how to apply the oil, clutching the towel to her chest and stumbling slightly over her words. My heart broke as I watched her steel herself before she turned and revealed her scarred back as though bracing herself for my reaction. A shimmering wall of solid golden power hid her thoughts from me. I hated that she’d learned to block me so fast; I hated that she felt the need to.
Gently, I gathered her thick hair and tucked it over her shoulder, and her little shuddering breath almost brought me to my knees. The oil pooled, glistening, and I warmed it in my hands before gently touching her skin. She flinched slightly, making my gut twist, but I didn’t stop. I worked the oil into the scar tissue slowly, my movements deliberate, willing her to know there wasn’t a single thing about her that repulsed me, not an inch that didn’t command my respect. She tipped her head down, hiding her face behind her hair, and I longed to tell her, to make her understand her scars didn’t make her any less—they made hermore.
Slowly, her muscles relaxed under my fingers. I added a little more pressure, trying to erase the ache with my thumbs. I wished I could take all of it—all the pain, all the hurt, all the years she spent being chipped into smaller and smaller pieces. She told me she was broken, but the fact she was here with this map of violence covering her skin and still so much kindness and care in her heart meant she was fuckingunbreakable.
A goddess remade piece by piece, scar by scar, into something achingly beautiful.
“That feel ok?”I asked, and even in my head, my voice sounded slightly hoarse.
“Yeah.”Her voice was soft—the single word packed with emotion.
Her muscles were hard where they should have been smooth as if they were trying to protect themselves from more damage. Under the rough scars, I could feel the muscles straining to hold together what had been torn apart. The worst of it was across her lower back, where the stitches had ripped, leaving a jagged line. The whip had bitten into her so deep since she had little fat or muscle to protect her, and the way her flesh had knitted itself back together looked more like survival than healing.
The memory assaulted me—shoving my way through the crowd to see her dangling from her cuffed hands on the whipping post, her back a shredded, bloody mess. Trey lifted her up, trying his best to avoid the wounds on her back as I uncuffed her hands. I remembered how my hands shook as I tried to unlock the cuffs and how Trey’s voice cracked with fear as he begged her to open her eyes. I remembered sitting beside the table where she lay unconscious and taking her limp hand, my thumb gently tracing the welts on her wrists from the cuffs. I remembered wanting to put a bullet in Madame’s head for what she’d done. I fucking should have. Instead, I took my fury out on Zip after Trey told me how the asshole hit Ember hard enough to knock her out.
I’d more than repaid the favor.
My hands followed the stiff muscles, and under my fingers, they became loose and pliant. I wanted to lean down and kiss the back of her neck and run my hands through her thick hair. I wanted to devour her, taste all her sighs, and hear her gasp my name. I wanted to explore her entire body with my hands, my mouth?—
I shifted slightly, trying to inconspicuously adjust myself. Getting an obvious hard-on was an asshole move, and I wanted her to feel safe to ask me for help with anything.
I didn’t want to stop, but I was running out of oil to rub in. Reluctantly, I dropped my hands. “That feel any better or does?—“
She turned to face me, and her eyes were full of tears.
“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” I demanded, my blood suddenly running cold.
“No!” she said quickly. “That was…really nice. And…I am just…” A tear spilled over, and she practically growled in frustration. “I am so fucking sick of crying.”
I attempted to hide my smile. “It’s ok if you cry.”
“I don’twantto,” she muttered.
My hands moved with a mind of their own, finding their way to her face. Her soft skin against my rough hands made a quiet ache settle in my chest. I kept finding myself here, gently cradling her cheeks, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Something about how her face fit so perfectly in my hands as if it were shaped just for me. It was becoming a habit or perhaps an addiction to hold her like this and feel her pulse thrumming with life beneath my fingers and my magic racing to the surface as though it recognized her. It felt like holding a godsdamned fallen star in my hands.
Her emerald eyes always went wide, emotion flashing through them like lightning—there and gone before I could get a good look. She never pulled back or spoke, like she was waiting for me to say something—and gods, I wanted to. I wanted to tell her how breathtaking she was, how she was everything I didn’t deserve and everything I wanted. I wanted to tell her holding her like this was like holding the last bit of warmth in a cold, cruel world. I wanted to tell her these moments felt like I was stealing something sacred, but it was a crime I would commit again and again just to feel the curve of her cheek against my palm.
Instead, I asked, “Where’s your brother?”
She blinked. “He’s meetin’ with his crew about something. Why?”
“Nobody was here guarding the clinic.”
