Page 56 of Brutal Knight

I can tell not all of them were easy cuts. Not that any of them were easy. But the lines aren’t just fine and straight. They’re jagged in some places, knotted in others. These weren’t precision cuts. They were violent, angry, uncaring marks.

I can’t even imagine what must have been done to her. What her father did, no less.

I try to remember if I’ve ever seen them. Surely I must have—she attended galas with Dmitri, came to events in pretty dresses. But if I think about it, I can’t remember ever having seen her scars. So she hid them, or maybe Dmitri made her hide them.

Because he was responsible for some, I’m sure.

It’s disgusting. As much as I’m shocked and sad for Willow, the longer I look, the angrier I feel. I keep thinking about how young she must have been when the first scar marked her body. How young she was when her father gave her away as a plaything to his men.

Only a pig does that to his daughter.

She was so young when she married Dmitri. How many scars did she have then? How many more does she have now?

All these marks are evidence of a lifetime of abuse. A lifetime of suffering.

I’m fucking furious. I’m so angry I can’t form words, can’t even think of what I would say. I can’t help the swirl of faces in my mind, Dmitri and Willow’s father and other faceless men. All the monsters that hurt her. I think about all of them, and all I know is that I want to protect her.

It’s sudden but overwhelming. No matter what, I have to protect Willow.

I step toward her, slow. Careful. I don’t want this to be any worse than what she’s already experienced before. I don’t want her to feel what she’s felt around men her entire life. I don’t want her to think of me the way she does them.

I want to show her I’m not like them, that they don’t even deserve to be called men. They were monsters, and they were weak to hurt a woman. They were weak to hurt someone who didn’t have the power to fight back.

Willow doesn’t pull away as I reach out slowly. She watches cautiously, like she’s ready to flee at the slightest sign of danger.

But she doesn’t run.

She doesn’t move at all as I trace a finger over a scar on her shoulder. It’s just slightly curved, resting below her collarbone in the shape of a crescent moon. I don’t know what made it, but it looks like it was deep. Like it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

I mean it. I am sorry, for everything she’s suffered and for all she’s had to put up with. I can’t imagine the hell her life was.

And now, she’s being chased again, torn in a hundred different directions by people that want her power, that want to use her. Just when she got out from under Dmitri, just when she should have been safe.

“Why?”

She asks the question in a hushed voice, almost too low to hear. It’s so fleeting that I almost don’t hear the word. But it’s there in the air, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that it’s not the first time the question has crossed her mind.

I could say something, but I don’t want to just yet. There’s something building between us, something more important than words.

I touch the scar on Willow’s shoulder and wonder if things would have been different, if I’d known sooner. I wonder if anything could have changed what she went through.

Willow shivers at my touch. A tremor runs through her body, tiny goosebumps rising on her skin. She’s not tense with fear. She’s not loose, either, but I can tell she’s responding.

It gives me hope, so I take a chance.

I move slowly again, this time dropping my head to her shoulder. I kiss the crescent moon scar as carefully and gently as possible, leaving room for her to step back.

Willow stiffens, but she doesn’t turn away. Her hands hang at her sides and her fingers spasm for a second, like she wants to grab something but forces herself not to. I wonder if she wanted to hold me, for just a second.

I move across her shoulder, toward her chest. I kiss the scars I find along the way, keeping my touch barely there. The stiffness in Willow’s body starts to sap away, a silent unraveling matched by the way her breathing is picking up.

She’s softening under my touch. I can feel her pulse race when I kiss her neck. I know I could hear her heart racing if I listened. Instead, I keep going, trying to relax her with every brush of my lips against her skin. I need her defenses to lower just a little—just enough for me to show her it won’t hurt.

I want to take a chance. I know it’s a long shot, but I have to try.

“Can I make you feel good?”

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