I picture him lying beside me, his hand drifting across my shoulder, and I can almost see it. The flicker of disgust twisting his face, the realization that he was touching someone damaged. The thought makes me choke. I fold smaller into myself, burying my face against my knees, as though I can vanish into myself.
It’s my fault. I should have remembered to hide the ugliness like I always do. I should have protected myself from this exact moment.
I’m stupid, stupid, stupid!
I believed that he might be someone who could see past my cracks. But now, I’m alone in an empty bed, staring at the space where he used to be.
I thought maybe, just maybe, he was different.
But the silence, the absence, and the cold sheets tell me otherwise.
And the worst part? A fragile, desperate part of me still waits for the sound of the door opening and for his footsteps returning.
But deep down, I know better. And I know he won’t come back to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
VIKTOR
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I come in, blanket bunched at her knees. I can immediately tell something is wrong.
My chest tightens. “Grigory called. There was an emergency. I thought I’d be back before you woke.” My words come out in a rush. “I should have left a note. I’m sorry. I messed up.” I bend down and pull her into my arms. “I’m sorry, Avelina.”
But I can sense that there’s more to this as she pulls her robe around her more tightly. And I realize it’s because I know about her scars.
I can feel the tremor in her shoulders and the way she folds inward as if protecting herself from a storm.
Her back is warm against my palm when I slide a hand carefully beneath the thin fabric to feel the scars again.
She flinches under my touch, and I still my fingers.
“It happened in the locker room,” she says finally, her voice small. “I fell back against a rusty locker. It…” She stops, her fingers fisting the sheet. The way she looks at me now is cautious—too cautious.
Something in the way she says the words, in the way her jaw trembles, makes the part of me that notices everything sharpen.Accidents don’t make people flinch like this.
“I know they’re ugly to look at. And…I know that my body is ugly.” She says it so quietly I almost miss it.
“Your body? It’s not ugly, Avelina. Did someone—” I begin, then shut my mouth. I get a feeling that the scars are connected to the old fractures the doctor told me about after seeing her X-rays. Avelina will tell me in her own time.When she’s ready.
“And I know I’m too…curvy,” she says, her words coming out in a rush. “I know how I look after having two kids. I should have realized this was a one-night thing. A man like you can have his pick of women, and there are so many beautiful women working here at the compound.”
“Why would you think that I wouldn’t want you for more than one night?” I asked, stunned at what she’s just said.
“It’s okay, I’m used to it. Men always ignore me and pick my slim friends when we’re out—and I don’t blame them. And you’ve seen my body naked now. The curves. The scars. I know I’m repulsive. Geliy told me that when we broke up.”
“Listen to me,” I say, voice low as I cup her face, thumb brushing her jaw. “I don’t care what anyone else has ever said to you. BecauseIthink you’re stunning and perfection. Every part of you is beautiful. Every curve. Every laughter line. Every mark from childbirth. And even the scars on your shoulder—they don’t make you broken. They make youwhole. They’re proof you survived. I want all of you—the quiet, the mess, and the parts you hide. You’re not less because of whatever happened to you. You’remore. I’ll keep you safe, and I’ll stand between you and anyone who tries to harm you ever again.”
She nods slowly.
I won’t make her tell me more about the scars before she’s ready.
But what I do know is that every scar represents a bad memory forher. Every scar represents pain she went through. And every scar represents a fucking revenge that I’ll exact on her behalf.
I let this cold promise settle under my ribs, steadier than any oath I’ve sworn for myself. Whoever did this, whoever put those painful, jagged lines into her skin, I’ll find them and make them fucking sorry.
It’s the following night, and we’re traveling in a convoy of vehicles. The road stretches out in front of me like a strip of darkness carved through the desert, lit only by our headlights and the faint red glow of the taillights ahead.
We left the L.A. docks a couple of hours ago, and we are headed northeast. I know this road as well as I know my own scars. On either side of us, the dunes stretch for miles, broken only by jagged rock formations and skeletal shrubs. It’s the kind of terrain that swallows men. And it’s perfect for us when we need to keep a low profile, like right now.
