Something in him went very still.
Her touch gentled, as if she felt the change. “Or is that too much? Ye can tell me nay. I will nae break.”
Her thumb brushed once along the edge of the scar.
His hand closed around the arm of the chair until his knuckles whitened.
“They are nae… pretty,” she added softly. “But I have wondered if they still hurt.”
She said it like a question wrapped in care. Like someone tapping at a door, waiting to see if it would open.
For a heartbeat, the urge to tell her the truth rose strong. To give shape to things he had left unnamed for years.
He crushed it down.
“They are a reminder,” he said, his voice coming out colder than he intended, “that survival comes at a cost.”
Her fingers stilled against his skin.
The fire snapped. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the narrow window.
Ariella’s brows drew together, not in fear, not in distaste. In something that looked far too much like empathy.
“Ye paid it,” she said quietly. “Ye are still here. That must count for something.”
He did not want to hear that. The words slipped under his armor too easily, lodged in the places he had long ago decided would stay empty.
His eyes flicked to hers.
There was no flinch there. No pitying tilt of the head. Only that steady, stubborn light, offering itself without demand.
His chest tightened, a hot, unwelcome pressure.
“I daenae want yer pity,” he said.
Her lips parted. “I am nae offering it.”
His jaw worked. “Then what.”
“Understanding,” she said simply. “Or at least the attempt.”
The word settled between them, soft as cloth and just as dangerous. Understanding. He could have withstood revulsion, could have braced against fear. This quiet acceptance unmoored him instead.
He could not stand the way it made him feel. The way some small, starving thing inside him reached toward it.
Without thinking, he caught her wrist.
He lifted her hand away from his face, from the scar. His grip was firm, not cruel, fingers closing around delicate bones.
“I told ye there would be nay talk of me past,” he said. The words dropped like small stones in a still pond.
Her eyes widened a fraction. “I didnae ask for details. Only —”
“It is the same road,” he said. “I have nay wish to walk it.”
She blinked, once. Twice. Something sparked in her gaze. Not hurt. Defiance.
“It would be best,” he went on, releasing her wrist but not stepping away, “if ye left.”
