Sadie had been here for over two weeks already, despite his grumbling and best efforts to send her fleeing back to America. That meant two weeks of clipped good-mornings, two weeks of her red pens, and two weeks of her suggestions.
Somehow, she’d surprised him. He’d expected another mediocre editor with an eye on the clock and general notes that even an intern could muster up. Instead, she’d walked into his study with a stack of pages marked with precise notations, her gray eyes unflinching when he’d growled at her critiques.
Other editors hacked at his prose, trying to make the book more “marketable,” more “accessible.” They had tried to strip away the heart of the story. But Sadie was different. She didn’t want to change his voice; she wanted to strengthen it.
Corbyn made another turn, his pace finally catching up with him, and his left hand refused to cooperate. Pain shot up his arm, and he cursed under his breath as he stopped and his feet hit the floor of the pool. Riley’s head lifted, concern evident in the slight whine that carried across the water.
“I’m fine,” Corbyn muttered, even though the dog wasn’t asking. It was a force of habit after years of everyone asking if he was okay any time he so much as grimaced.
His thoughts drifted back to Sadie as he trudged toward the pool stairs. Three editors had come and gone before her, each causing his frustration and doubts to grow. She saw through his posturing to the man underneath, and the realization that she had begun to crack through the armor he’d welded around himself unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
As he moved toward the bench where dry clothes waited, Riley trotting behind him, Corbyn caught himself wondering what Sadie might be working on this morning. He’d left her in the study with the stack of papers to read through for the afternoon session. To his surprise, he actually found himself looking forward to it, to the sharp back-and-forth of literary debate. She was one of the few who could keep up with him, and that had his mind drifting down a dangerous road.
She was only here temporarily. She would inevitably return to her life in New York, and he knew better than to get attached.
His swim shirt clung uncomfortably to him, and getting it off would be a battle. It was a familiar one, but still one he never won gracefully. Knowing there was no way to escape the inevitable, he reached for the hem with both hands, grimacing as his left refused to fully cooperate. His fingers fumbled against the wet fabric, and the first tug brought a hiss through clenched teeth as the material dragged across hypersensitive skin.
“Bloody hell,” he growled, trying again with more force. The shirt rolled up his chest, catching on the raised ridges of scar tissue that crisscrossed his torso. Each pull was just another reminder of how simple tasks had become complex negotiations with pain.
When he finally managed to drag it over his head, his left arm twisted at an awkward angle, sending a fresh spike of agony shooting through his shoulder and down his spine. The shirt hung from his right hand, his breathing heavy from the exertion.
He caught his reflection in the mirror across the way. Welts stretched across his chest and abdomen, ranging in colors from silver to red, puckered and uneven. The worst ran from his right shoulder to his left hip, a jagged line where his clothing had first caught fire. Others radiated outward, smaller but no less vivid. They’d faded somewhat over the years, but not enough. Never enough.
He reached for his towel on the bench beside his dry clothes. The motion stretched tender skin, but he bit back another curse. Riley watched, patient and unperturbed by the marks his human bore. To the dog, scars were another part of Corbyn, neither more nor less important than any other.
Scowling in disgust, he turned, towel half-raised to his chest, and stopped cold.
Sadie stood at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second as they took in his exposed chest. Timefroze, and Corbyn couldn’t move or breathe. He felt a bit like he’d been pinned under glass.
Her eyes met his, a direct gaze that didn’t flinch away from what she saw. There was surprise there, but not the revulsion he’d learned to expect. Not pity either, that poisonous emotion that cut worse than any physical pain.
“Edie sent me… she says lunch is nearly ready,” she said, her voice remarkably steady, betraying nothing of what must be churning beneath.
Heat shot up Corbyn’s spine, and the moment stretched in silence. Riley sensed the tension and stood between them, his gaze swinging between the two humans.
Corbyn snatched his dry shirt from the bench, sending water droplets flying. His fingers fumbled with the fabric, clumsy with haste and humiliation. The shirt snagged on his damp skin, and a hiss escaped his lips as his left hand seized again, his anger boiling up to the surface.
“Get out,” he barked, the words slicing through like a blade.
Sadie didn’t move. Her jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping near her temple, but she stood her ground. The manuscript pages crinkled slightly in her grip, the only sign that his words had landed.
“Now, Reed,” he growled, yanking the shirt down, teeth gritted against the pain that radiated from his shoulder. “I don’t need you staring.”
“Corbyn,” she started, taking a step forward. Her voice was even and controlled, and that somehow made it worse. It was threatening to further breach the walls he’d so carefully constructed. “I didn’t mean…”
“You didn’t mean to what?” he cut her off, snarling the word. “Gape? Piss off, Reed, I don’t want your damn pity.”
“It’s not pity,” she said, and he saw the flush creeping up her neck in either embarrassment or anger. “I was just…”
“Just what?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Wanted to satisfy your curiosity? Did Jess not warn you what you’d be dealing with when she sent you here?”
Her spine stiffened, her voice tense as she breathed, “That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair,” he spat, his scarred hand curling into a fist at his side. “Or haven’t you figured that out yet? Now get out before you see something else you don’t want to.”
“Corbyn, I…”
“I said GET OUT!” His roar echoed against the tiled walls, making Riley jump. “This isn’t part of your job description, Reed. You’re here for the book, not to inspect the damaged goods. Or did your contract include being my therapist, too?”
