The amber ring in his eyes flares brightly. “Can I touch you? Here?”
“Yes.”
Jared runs the pad of his fingers over my scars, feeling the texture. He brushes the edges, trails his fingers down my neck, the movement soft and slow. Intimate.
He’s solely focused on me, his eyes dark. I listen to his steady breathing, taking comfort in it.
I don’t remember anyone ever touching me like this. Not there.
Not even Ben. It always felt like he barely saw my scars at all. Like it didn’t matter that I was flawed. A different kind of freedom.
He saw the girl I used to be. Quiet, shy. That Emmy knew how to laugh. How to love the little moments. Ben coaxed her back to life, and he had no idea how deeply she was hidden, and why.
But Jared… Jared seesallof me. My scars included.
“Some of these look like splashes.” The rough murmur comes as he traces a section on my neck.
“Oil,” I whisper. He stills, his touch falling away. “Don’t… don’t stop.”
Keep touching me.
My throat bobs. “Arron lost his temper. It didn’t happen often. Not… not like that. He was so controlled. He planned everything. Every conversation. Every punishment. He would think it over, and I knew it would be coming. But that night was different. He picked up the pan and he just… threw it. I lifted up my arm and twisted, but the oil still hit me.”
I’ll never forget the smell. The screaming.
The way Arron drove me to the hospital but made me wait in the car until I could repeat the story back to him, through the blinding pain and the fear.
“You asked him for a divorce, didn’t you?”
I stiffen, my lips parting in surprise. “How’d you know?”
Jared’s jaw is clenched. “When we went into the system, I met a lot of kids. Good kids, mostly, in bad situations. But there were some that I knew were never going to be good people. Those kids always preferred to break the toys they liked most, rather than let somebody else touch them.”
His finger tilts up my chin. Lifting it. “But he didn’t break you. You should be proud of who you are, Em.”
“It felt like he did. For a long time.”
Through the hospital stay. The whispered apologies. The polite visits from my parents. The pain, and the tightness as my skin regrew, refusing the skin graft that Arron pushed on me to try to make meprettyagain.
“You left,” Jared says firmly. “You left your whole damn life behind to keep yourself safe. Everything you’d been coached to accept, you threw back at them and walked away. Fucking hell, Em. I’m so fuckingproudof you.”
My smile wobbles. My heart flutters, starting to race. “You are?”
He presses his lips to my forehead. “I am.”
I blink, and taste salt on my lips. “You know, he wanted me to have a skin graft. I didn’t technically need it, but it would have been better for the scarring. I said no. It might still fade, but I’ll never be like I was before.”
I’ll never be that girl again. Pretty and perfect, a model wife.
And I’m okay with that.
We all have our stories. Mine is written across my skin. A reminder for when I look in the mirror. A reminder that I was strong enough toleave.
I need that reminder of my own strength more than I need to see smooth skin. I can cope with a little self-consciousness now and then. I’d still have that, with or without the scar.
“Because you’re not the same person,” Jared murmurs. “It’s a reflection of who you arenow, of how far you’ve come. And he wanted you to cover that up and pretend nothing had happened.”
Just like that, he gets it.
