Maybe we couldn’t turn back the hands of time. But maybe we could find a reset button? “No matter how hard I try not to, I still want you, Rav.”
“You can have whatever of me you want.” His hands skimmed down to my waist, fingers slipping beneath my turtleneck to touch bare skin. The contact sent electricity racing through me. Slowly, he began to lift the fabric, his eyes asking permission.
And suddenly, my brain remembered.
My scars.
The damage.
The reason I always wore high collars and long sleeves.
I stilled his hands with mine. “Wait.”
He immediately froze. “I’m sorry if I?—”
“That’s not it. Before this goes further…” I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “There’s something you need to see first.”
Part of me wanted to give in to the moment and forget about everything else. Just because his shirt came off didn’t mean mine had to. I could have sex with a shirt on. He never had to see the damage.
What if it went well between us? What if we had a future beyond this mission?It’s easier to lose him now than later.
“You aren’t the only one with scars.” My throat tightened, and I stepped back from him, my body protesting the whole time. “The chemical splash at Barin Kala did more damage than you might realize.”
“I don’t care.”
“You might.” I slipped out of his grasp, moving toward the slice of moonlight coming through the balcony doors. I closed the door, as much to delay the inevitable as to cut the chill from the air. I focused on those details, anchoring myself as my hands moved to the hem of my turtleneck.
In one smooth motion, before I lost my nerve, I pulled it over my head.
I stood there in my bra, my back still to him, acutely aware of the damage visible even from behind. The mottled skin crept over my left shoulder and down my back, evidence of where the chemical had soaked through my shirt and plate carrier, wicking along the fabric, eating through the cells as fast as it could.
He came closer, no doubt to witness how hideous I was.
His eyes were on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to face him. Not until I was sure I could handle the rejection.
“I don’t care about scars,” he whispered again, with such sincerity I almost believed it.
Drawing another deep breath that did little to settle my nerves, I turned to face him.
The scarring was extensive—starting at my left ear, traveling down my neck in an uneven path, spreading across my shoulder, the inside of my arm, and chest, covering most of my left breast before tapering at my waist.
I forced myself to meet his eyes, bracing for what I might find there—pity, disgust, or worst of all, the careful blankness that meant someone was hiding their true reaction.
His eyes moved over my scars with the same attention he’d give any part of me. When his gaze returned to mine, there was no revulsion—only a deep sadness. “Can I touch you?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He moved toward me slowly. When his fingers finally made contact with my skin, tracing the edge of scarring along my collarbone, I thought my heart was about to explode.
His touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “The nerve damage makes some areas numb, others hypersensitive.”
His hand paused. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“I will.”
His fingers resumed their careful exploration, following the same path the Lewisite had over my shoulder. He mapped the geography of my injury without hesitation or retreat.
