Page 58 of Brambles and Bellflowers
“Don’t make fun of my underwear,” she warned, a note of embarrassment in her voice.
I barely held back my laugh as panic threatened to pull me under.Thatwas her concern?
I just wanted to knowwhy she was stripping.
What the fuck was I supposed to do about this?
I inched backward, giving her space to move freely. My warring emotions clouded my thoughts, and I had no idea what was happening—all I could do was focus on her.
Her button nose was wrinkled, and her face was the picture of concentration as she twisted to undress. I couldn’t look away.
I didn’t understand why she was doing this.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“There,” she said, tugging on the waistband of her pink lace panties. “It’s awful.”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Her skin was perfect and smooth, and while the shorts Maria had dressed her in for the slumber party weren’tunderwear, they’d left little to the imagination. So this wasn’t much more than I’d already seen, and I couldn’t imagine what she thought I’d notice…
But then again, Bianca hadn’t been lying less than a foot away from me then. Plus, it’d been hard to get a good look with the others nearby.
However, at this moment, I could look without distraction. She was entirely mine.
My drive for revenge plans and fury faded, and I was unable to tear my gaze from the half-naked girl beside me. But then, 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 extended from the place where her underwear covered her groin. I moved without thinking, moving until my chest was over her knees, and pushed the lace band away until the entirety of the scar was exposed.
The wound was about two inches thick and as long as my hand. I tentatively touched it; it felt like leather.
Everything else faded; the sight would be forever burned into my memory.
The sight of that marred flesh on her perfect skin made my blood boil.
“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 shock—I realized she was shaking harder than before.
I frowned, crawled until my face was even with her stomach, and crossed my arms over her hips, resting there. She’d been triggered the last time I touched her near here, but right now, she didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all.
“Why are you sorry?” I asked.
“It’s really ugly,” she said. “And despite how you keep your home, I know you like pretty things.”
I scowled. What did she have against my house?
But I understood what she was saying—I’d seen her side-eyeing certain pieces of my collections—and something came to me.
“Do you know whyI like antiques?”
She shook her head, still hiding under her arms.
“Because theysurvived,” I explained. “A true collector doesn’t care if a piece is imperfect, and a little wear and tear is good. When something is strong, sturdy, and dependable, a scratch won’t affect its worth.”
“You could at least fix up the outside…” she muttered. “It looks haunted.”
