Page 61 of Balance
As my vision moved up the length of her thigh and along the soft curve of her hip, I saw it, and my blood cooled.
A small portion of rough, scarred skin peeked out from beneath the lace where her underwear covered the line of her groin. I moved without thinking, inching myself down until my chest was to her knees, and pushed the lace back until the entirety of the scar was exposed.
The mark was about two inches thick and as long as my hand. Tentatively, I touched it—it felt like leather.
Everything else faded; the sight would be forever burned into my memory.
“Bianca…” What could I say? What could I do to make it better?
“I’m s-s-sorry,” she breathed, her voice trembling.
I tore my gaze from the sight, glancing up to her face. But her arms were thrown over her eyes, and—through my own shock—I realized she was shaking harder than before.
Frowning, I crawled up until my face was even with her stomach. I crossed my arms, resting there. The last time we’d gotten this close, she’d been triggered right around here, but now she didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all.
“Why are you sorry?”
“It’s really ugly,” she said. “And despite how you keep your home, I know you like pretty things.”
I scowled. What was it with her and judging my house?
But I understood what she was saying, and something came to me from it.
“Do you knowwhyI like antiques?”
She shook her head, still hiding under her arms.
“Because theysurvived,” I explained. “Collectors don’t care that they’re roughed up, and a little wear and tear is good. When something is strong, sturdy, and dependable, a scratch won’t affect its worth. Hell, even if there are entire aspects that need restoration, a true collector will look through the damage and see the item’s potential.”
“You could at least fix up the outside…” she muttered.
“I’m not talking about my house.”
Bianca was witty and smart, and her grades were nothing to sneer at either. Not grasping cultural references was one thing, but this was something entirely different.
There was absolutely no way she was this dense.
She inched her arms from her face, glancing down at me. Her cheeks had dusted over a light pink. “I know…” she admitted, further confirming my suspicions.
I had thought this might be the case for a while now, but—
“When you randomly change the subject, or pretend you don’t know what’s happening, is it because you’re actually avoiding the topic?”
Her skin deepened to an almost scarlet color, and she could no longer meet my eyes. “Don’t analyze me.”
I was right—my chest twisted with both pride and fury. Pride that she’d found a way to survive without breaking to pieces, and fury that it’d been necessary.
“I guess the bigger question is this: are you doing it on purpose? Or is it happening on a subconscious level?”
She frowned at me.
“Or maybe it’s a bit of both?” I raised my eyebrow, the possibility never occurred to me before. Did she also do it in her thoughts?
That was a hell of a defense mechanism. No wonder she wasn’t getting any better. However, it was good to know. While this wasn’t healthy, it was nothing we couldn’t work with—now that we knew what to look out for.
“You’re not bothered right now?” I asked.
A calculating gleam entered her eyes—a look Mu often wore while he was thinking unkind things about people. I’d seen this expression more often than not being leveled in my direction lately.
