“You have scars.” His gaze traces down to my arms, where old wounds mar the skin. “Beautiful scars. Proof of your strength. But you hide them. Cover them. Like you’re ashamed.”
He leans in slightly.
“I would kiss every one. Trace them with my fingers. Show you how perfect they are.”
My breath hitches, and his eyes flicker with satisfaction.
“May I?” he asks, lifting one hand slowly.
I should say no.
Should pull back, refuse, keep the distance.
But I’m so tired.
And his voice is so soft.
And part of me—the part I hate—wants to know what his touch feels like when I can see his face.
I nod.
Just barely.
His fingers brush my jaw, feather-light, and I shiver.
He traces the line of my cheekbone. Tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle. Reverent. Like I’m something precious.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “Are you afraid of me? Or afraid of this?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and my breath stutters.
“Your reflection in the mirror,” he says softly, “she knows her worth. Wears it like armor.”
The mention of Riley makes my stomach drop.
“You could too,” he continues. “If you let yourself.”
I pull back slightly, and he lets me. Doesn’t chase.
Just watches with those green eyes that see too much.
“She’s not afraid to take what she wants,” he says. “To be powerful. Beautiful. Desired.”
The comparison twists like a knife.
Because he’s right.
Riley looked confident. Certain. Everything I’m not.
And the guys—
They’re with her. Believing she’s me. Maybe even—
“You could be like her,” Ethos murmurs. “Strong. Unafraid. If you stopped fighting what you are.”
