He forced himself to meet her gaze, braced for what he’d find there.
But there was no pity in her eyes. No disgust. Just that same hunger, tempered now with something softer. “Can I touch you?”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, just gave a jerky nod, even as everything in him screamed to run, to hide.
She released his wrist and brought her hand to his chest, fingertips barely grazing the worst of the scars—a starburst pattern over his sternum where shrapnel had torn through his body armor. Her touch was light, exploratory, tracing the edges of the damaged skin.
“Does it hurt?”
He shook his head. “Not anymore.” Except that wasn’t entirely true. The physical pain had faded years ago, but the memory of it lived in his bones, flaring with nightmares, with changes in the weather, with moments like this when someone else’s eyes on his scars made them burn all over again.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, leaning down to press her lips against the center of his chest.
Something cracked open inside him at her words, at the gentleness of her mouth against his ruined skin. A sound escaped him, half laugh, half sob. “Don’t.”
She looked up, still hovering close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t lie to me. Not you.” Everyone else could lie to him, could pretend he wasn’t broken, wasn’t damaged goods. But not her. Never her.
“I’m not lying.” She straightened, her hands still resting on his chest. “These scars are part of you. I don’t see them as separate.”
“You’re seeing them in the dark.” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended. “In daylight...”
“In daylight, they’d still be part of the man I’ve been in love with for six years.”
He closed his eyes, unable to look at her.
Love.
She might think that’s what she felt, but she didn’t know him. Not really. She knew the letters. The carefully chosen words. Not the broken, fucked-up man beneath them.
“You don’t love me.” He sat up, forcing her to move back. “You love who you think I am.”
“That’s not true.” Her voice hardened, that stubborn streak he’d glimpsed before surfacing. “I’ve seen you with the kittens. With Bramble. With the horses. With everyone at the ranch. I know exactly who you are, Anson.”
“No, you don’t.” He grabbed his undershirt and yanked it on, covering the worst of the scars. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’m capable of.”
“I do, though. You told me. In your letters. About the fire. About prison.”
“Not all of it.” He stood, needing distance from her, from the softness in her eyes. “Not the worst parts.”
She scrambled off the bed, still topless. She grabbed his flannel from the floor and pulled it on, not bothering with the buttons. “Then tell me. Tell me the worst parts.”
“No.” He took another step back, feeling the wall at his back. “Not now. Not like this.”
“Then when?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “When will you stop running from me? From us?”
“I’m not running.”
She moved closer, and he had nowhere left to retreat. “That’s exactly what you’re doing. Every time we get close, you pull back. You find a reason to put distance between us.”
She wasn’t wrong.
But he couldn’t seem to stop.
“I should go. Bramble needs out.”
“Bramble is fine.” She pointed to the wolfhound, who had lifted his head at the sound of his name but showed no signs of urgency. “This is about you being scared. Of me. Of whatever’s happening between us.”
