“No, sweetheart. I’m giving you all of me—bruises, cuts, and scars. You’ve already given me all of you.”
I nodded, squeezing Alistair’s hand, a silent promise he would never be alone.
His palm settled on my thigh, grounding himself. “There are always monsters who try to silence the innocent,” he said quietly. “Rachel and the Colonel made me swear never to speak of the atrocities they committed against my body.”
“But you spoke up, right? Your parents?—”
“I told them. I was examined and treated at Saint John’s, the same hospital where you spent time healing.”
“What happened to the people who hurt you?” I asked.
“My parents went to the police. Rachel and the Colonel were arrested.”
“Where are they now?”
“Rachel’s still rotting in prison. The Colonel walked free the year I graduated college. I kept tabs on him. I had to. Later, I found out he assaulted a nine-year-old girl. Nine, Vera. Can you believe it?”
My throat closed. “Did you ever see him again?”
Alistair’s gaze shifted sideways, and his silence was answer enough.
“Scotty?” I whispered, my finger tracing the scar down to the intricate eagle inked across his skin.
He stayed silent. I already understood. There were reasons men like Angelo existed, reasons Alistair carried that hunger for retribution. I understood his hatred of evil, why he lived by the creed, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” We carried thesame fire, surviving abuse by vile people who tried to break our bodies but could never touch our souls.
“I’m so sorry, Alistair,” I breathed, my voice trembling. “So damn sorry for what they did to you.”
His eyes flashed with red-hot anger. “Do you know what hurt most? I’ll never forget being only twelve and overhearing my father call me damaged goods. I was in so much pain, so much fear, I wanted to die. I was just a kid.”
“What do you think of me?” he whispered hoarsely. “That I’m some sick and perverted?—”
“No,” I refuted. “You did nothing wrong. It was never your fault. Do you understand?”
“It’s the worst memory of my life,” he rasped. “I wish it had never happened.”
I reached up, brushing my tears away with the back of my hand. “Alistair, you’re more than a survivor. You stood up, told your parents the truth. That took courage. You’re not broken. You’re a warrior. You’re a saint.”
“I’m not a saint,” he scoffed. “I’m a monster.”
“You’re a saint. Think of the people you fight for. You’re fighting for Damian and your charity work for the homeless, the sick, women running from domestic violence, and children who survived abuse. You’re also helping my brother. You call yourself a monster? You’re wrong.”
Alistair laughed. “Is that how you see me? As a fucking saint?”
“Of all the people who can understand Julian, there’s only one. You.” I searched Alistair’s wounded soul with my eyes, willing him to see it. “You know his suffering.”
He nodded, offering a half-smile.
“I finally understand your eagle. It isn’t just a mark on your skin. It’s the symbol that carried you. Hope. Strength. Salvation.”
Alistair broke the silence, his voice low. “Can you pray for me?”
I almost laughed through my tears. I was the last person who should pray. But then my gaze caught on the words inked beneath the eagle:Psalm 103: 2–5.
I pressed my lips to his scar and whispered, “God, hear me. Crown this man with your love, so his strength soars like the eagle’s. Protect the man I love with all my heart and soul. Amen.”
“Thank you.” Alistair squeezed my hand, his throat working as tears slid down the hard lines of his cheekbones. “The abuse. The stigma of ADHD. The battles with my own urges. The two women who ended up pregnant because of my carelessness. For so long, I believed no woman could ever love the shattered soul under this shell. But I was wrong. You love me.”
I cupped his face. “As you love me.”
