My breath catches in my throat.
Scars. So many scars.
Some are faint, faded over time, barely noticeable unless the light catches them just right, but others are deeper. Angrier. Ridges of puckered skin, thick and brutal. But my attention snags on the jagged scar that curves over his left shoulder blade, its edges uneven as if torn rather than cut.
He looks up and follows my gaze to the mirror. He doesn’t move; he doesn’t breathe. But then he pulls a dry shirt over his head, hiding what was just revealed.
He turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say because he can’t leave.
Not now.
Not after what I’ve just seen, this piece of him that he keeps hidden. He stops but doesn’t face me. His shoulders rise then fall. Rise, then fall in steady, measured breaths.
“Who?” I say—no, I demand. “Who did that to you?”
I step closer, the space between us narrowing. Then closer still, until I’m just behind him. My hands ache to reach out, to touch him, to trace those scars through the fabric that now shields them, scars that must have caused him unspeakable pain.
“It was a long time ago.” His voice is low and rough. He still doesn’t face me.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No, it’s not,” he says, the words clipped. “But it’s the only answer you’re going to get.”
He finishes the journey to the door.
“Jax.” My voice cracks on his name, and once again, he stills. “Just stay. Please. Stay because tonight…it’s been pleasant. Far more pleasant than I thought it would be, and I’m not ready for it to end, not yet. I won’t ask about your scars. You can do the asking. I’ll do the talking. Just…don’t go.”
Gods, I’m pathetic.Beyond pathetic, and I hate it. But not as much as I’d hate it if he walked out that door right now.
I take another step toward him, and his shoulders seem to lose a fraction of their tension.
“Please, I’m…I’m not ready to be alone again.”
He turns slowly, his entire face changing the moment our eyes meet. His lips part, he inhales a breath, and then he nods.
Without saying a word, he moves toward the bed, hesitating just before it. He kicks off his boots and settles on top of the mattress.
His long frame eats up the space, and he laces his fingers behind his head, lying back against the pillow.
“By all means, make yourself comfortable.” I roll my eyes but smile regardless. I smile because hestayed.
He smirks—it’s a fleeting thing, but it was there.
Grabbing the chair from the desk, I drag it closer to the bed, its legs scraping faintly against the floor. I settle into the seat.
“What was your first trial like?”
His question startles me, and I’m not sure what I was expecting, where I thought this conversation would go, but it certainly wasn’there.
“I…uh…I try not to think about the first trial,” I admit because memories of that day still haunt me. The screams of the ones who didn’t make it through. The smell of blood and sweat, the sound of bones cracking against stone, but most of all how close I had been to joining the dead if it hadn’t been for Char.
“You don’t have to—”
“No, I want to tell you,” I interrupt, surprised by my own admission. But him asking…I need to believe it means something.
I remember when I first arrived and there were so many books scattered across the desk. Books about the history of the trials.
