Page 204 of Dance of Defiance
The city hums below us as I sit back in the lounge chair, his back against my chest and my arms around his body. Roman’s fingers lazily drag over my skin, sending incredible shivers down my spine as he strokes my arms.
Suddenly, his fingers go still.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I murmur, kissing the back of his neck.
Then I freeze when his finger touches the chaos on my arm.
“What is this?” he asks quietly. “Honestly.”
For a second, I can’t even speak, it’s come out of nowhere so fast. I haven’t had time to put on my armor or throw up my walls.
Roman twists in my arms. “Hey,” he says gently, cupping my jaw. “Whatever it is?—”
“It’s nothing.”
But he’s not stupid, and he doesn’t let it go that easily. It’s one of the reasons I like him so much.
“It’s covering scars,” he murmurs quietly. “That’s why the lines are so chaotic, right? To obscure the?—”
“How…” My throat works, my chest rising and falling rapidly. “I?—”
“I’ve gotten pretty familiar with your body,” he says, his face heating. He leans close to me, touching his forehead to mine. “Whatever it is, youcantell me.”
“What if I don’t want to,” I rasp, tensing as the darkness begins to swirl and claw inside me.
“Why wouldn’t you?”
I look away.
Roman gently turns my face back to him. “You brought me out of a darkness that was going to fucking kill me,” he growls. “I want to?—”
“No, you don’t,” I choke.
His lips touch my cheek.
“The thing is, baby,” he murmurs, his baritone voice humming though my chest and cracking the ice splintering around my heart. “Ido.”
My eyes are glistening as I twist my face to look at him, my pulse thudding. “I—I’m worried you’ll?—”
He silences me with a kiss as he holds me tightly.
“There’s nothing you could say that would make me adore you any less.”
Goddammit, this guy.
I start to cry, and I fuckinghatecrying.
Then it all comes out. I tell him about Connor, the twenty-something son of the foster mom I was placed with when I was thirteen. I tell him about Connor coming to my room at night.
About the touches that wouldn’t stop. The knife against my throat and the whispered threats of what would happen if I told anyone.
I go numb as I tell him about the touches turning to more.
About the garage behind the house.
About the rag in my mouth that I screamed into while he made me bleed, in more ways than one.
