Page 121 of Painted Scars
I can’t stop cataloging him now that there’s no barrier between us. The curve of his cheekbone. The concentration line that wasn’t there before. Or the hard set of his mouth, which used to smile a hell of a lot more before the world dimmed hislight. Being in his orbit after he kept it padlocked down feels like I’ve lock-picked a forbidden room and crept in. In the space of a day, he’s brought me deeper into his private world. I don’t know what to do with that.
I hate how much his betrayal hurts. I’ve survived far worse than an overprotective stalker with trust issues. With August, it’s not just about safety anymore, it’s about wanting the version of him who makes me fearless and invincible. The one who taught me I’m safe without all the glow.
No, bad Book Girlie.
Do not get soft and gooey. Do not picture his stupid broad shoulders, the ink on his body, his sexy, tousled hair, or turquoise eyes. Definitely don’t get suckered in by how good his arms look curled around you and how they’re the only arms that make you feel safe. Nope, do not recall the sexy, quiet way he says your nickname, and how it makes you melt every time. Absolutely, under no circumstances are we to remember his fierce growl to never touch what’s his or the sweet little ornaments he spent hours designing.
Rational me slaps the paperback shut on her face. We’re mad, remember? We don’t swoon over declarations. Don’t forget what he’s hiding or that he crushed us again. We’re not going to forgive him.
The part of me that uses dark romance like therapy, who gets off on being stalked, claimed, and obsessed over, leans in and whispers that this is exactly how the heroine gets pulled back in. And, damn, my chest feels like he underlined my name in permanent ink next toTouch her and die, she’s mineand STFUATMDLAGG.
He brings me a chipped bowl withCorn Flakesand a long-life milk carton and sits by the edge of the bed.
“I don’t know what’s more deadly.” I point to the expiration date, three years out of date. “Your food or the Romans.”
“Haven’t died yet.” He lifts his arm and flexes his bicep in his shirt.
Wrong move. I point my spoon at him. “Holster the weapons, Officer Kelly. Those things need to come with a warning label.”
His smile is criminal. “I’ll file a waiver before flexing.”
Jokes ease the pressure between us.
I dive into my food as a distraction and take a bite. It tastes like trying to rescue dust, but his eyes tracking my every move make it edible.
When I finish the food, he takes my bowl, setting it aside and brushing his hands. “Do you want to talk? About the next step? How you’re feeling?” His throat clicks on his swallow. “About us?” It’s the first time he lets fear bleed into his tone.
I want to sayI love you, be mine forever. I also want to tell him how much I hate him. Take it all back. Promise me you won’t leave again. Shit, I need a minute to think about this. Brace for anger, yelling, tears, and lasso my Book Girlie to prevent her from dry humping on his lap.
I lift my forefinger. “No more fucking lies, August. You’ve deceived me for long enough.” I press a hand to my roiling stomach. “You knew what happened to me and didn’t say a word. You touched me. Let me trust you. Betrayed meagain.”
“I broke your trust. Hurt you. I can’t erase the past.” He takes a step and reaches for me. “But I want to rewrite the future.”
I step back from him. “For what? Your guilt?”
“Because I broke something I should have loved and treasured for the sake of saving you.” His voice breaks, and so does my heart.
No. I am not feeling pity.
“I should have told you sooner…” His voice trails off. “I wanted to a hundred times. I’m a fucking coward.”
I huff out an angry laugh. “I should have listened and walked away when you said the fairytale ends, midnight strikes, and Cinderella walks away.”
He rucks a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you?”
“Apparently, I have a Daddy kink for grumpy stalkers with a hero complex.” I kick my socked foot. “And major character flaws.” I rub my forehead, careful of the bandage. “My therapist will have a field day.”
“Your flaws are beautiful.” His eyes hold mine, daring me to argue. “It’s mine that need therapy.”
“Flattery’s a dangerous game with me.” I sip my tea so he won’t see my hands shake.
He lets me sit with what he’s admitted. Or maybe the vulnerability stings him as much as it does me.
I cradle my drink to my stomach like a lifeline. “Tell me why you left, August.”
“After you made the report on Blackthorn, the Chief of Police pulled me into his office,” he explains, hands stiff by his side. “Told me to drop the case in no uncertain terms.”
“You never told me that,” I whisper.
