“Yeah, Luci?” She’s so close that I can feel every part of her body aligning with mine.
Rory’s pouty, cupid-bowed lips halt so that they barely graze mine.
“We…we can’t do anything while you’re drunk,” I reluctantly tell her.
She sighs, her breath fanning my lips. “Okay. But for the record, I’m going to remind you of this conversation tomorrow and tell you that sober me would have made the same decision.”
“Fine by me, gorgeous.” I kiss her forehead, beside the scar slowly healing itself.
“What happened to Butterfly?” She asks after returning to her place between my legs.
“Nothing, except it’s also what my grandmother calls you,” I remind her. “Gorgeous suits you better.”
I feel Rory smile as she says, “you romantic.”
I reach over and grab the wash cloth from the side of the bathtub.
“Only for you, gorgeous,” I tell her, using the cloth to gently wash her back.
My eyes fixate on the scars littering her back, all too similar to mine.
Cigarette burns, glass, blunt objects…
They make me angry—so angry—that she was alone for so long.
Jace told us life wasn’t great for her or Dec before she was taken away but I don’t think even he knew a lot of what went on.
Some of these…they’re too old for three years.
My fingers brush over a faint white line on her back up near her shoulder.
Rory picks up her glass from the edge of the bathroom and sips it. I eventually remember I was doing something and pick up the abandoned cloth.
“You can ask,” she says after a while.
There’s a short knock on the door. “Dinner’s ready, guys,” Dom calls out.
“Thanks,” Rory and I shout back.
She reaches behind her and stills my hand. She takes the cloth from my hand. Turning to face me, she dips the cloth into the warm water and uses it to wash my chest.
“You can ask,” she repeats softly. “I’m surprised no one has already.”
“We were waiting for you to tell us,” I explain.
“I don’t mind talking about them. Some are easier than others,” she tells me, dipping the washer back into the water again.
I take it from her and lay it on the side of the tub, wanting her full attention.
“Tell me stop if you want to stop,” I murmur. She nods slightly.
Her gaze follows my hand as I reach out, my fingers skimming the scar on her collarbone.
“Knife. Dear old dad.”
My fingers move to the one on her side. “Piece of glass from a broken mirror. A lower level Dark Rider at one of Marcus’ parties,” Rory says tightly.
I pause my fingers on a mark in the middle of her back, up near her neck. It’s like a scar but blue and angry. Andfamiliar.
