Not in a way that means he likes what he sees, but rather that he’s just seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
I yank down my shirt and turn around, but it’s too late. He’s standing by the dish rack with a towel hanging over his shoulder, and his face has gone blank in a way I’ve learned to recognize. It’s the face he wears when he’s trying very hard not to feel something.
“Pyotr—”
“How many times?”
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
I wrap my arms around myself, a reflex I can’t seem to break. “I don’t know. I stopped counting after the first year.”
He sets the towel on the counter and crosses the kitchen toward me. I take a step back, but the counter blocks my retreat.
“I’ve seen some of them,” he concedes. “In the dark. In pieces. But you always kept your back covered. I didn’t realize you were hiding this.”
He’s right. Every time we’ve been together, I’ve been strategic about it without realizing it. Facing him during sex. Keeping my shirt on until the last second. Making sure the lights were too dim to see the full picture.
It’s become so automatic that I forgot I was doing it.
“Can I look?” he asks.
I nod once. “Yes.”
No one has ever asked. Bogdan certainly never asked permission for anything. In the years since I left him, I’ve made sure no one got close enough to see the whole of what he did to me.
“They’re ugly,” I whisper.
“I don’t care.”
“I care.”
“I know.” He lifts his hand and hovers it near my waist, waiting. “Let me see, golubka. Please.”
Something about the way he asks breaks through my defenses. Pyotr doesn’t beg. Pyotr demands. Pyotr commands. But right now, he’s asking, and the gentleness in his voice makes me blink back the wetness gathering in my eyes.
I turn around, and his fingers find the hem of my shirt. He lifts it slowly, giving me time to stop him. I don’t. The fabric slides up my back, exposing skin I’ve kept hidden for years.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move or speak. I feel him looking, and I want to crawl out of my skin.
Then, his fingertips brush the first scar.
I flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. He traces the raised line of tissue from my hip to my spine, featherlight before he moves to the next one. And the next. Mapping the damage Bogdan left behind.
“Belt,” he surmises.
“Sometimes. Sometimes other things.”
His touch moves higher, finding the cluster of small circular scars between my shoulder blades.
“Cigarettes.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He presses his lips to one of them, just a brush of warmth against ruined skin. Then another. Another. Kissing each mark like he can erase what made them.
“I’m going to kill him,” he declares. “Slowly. I want you to know that.” He turns me to face him, and his eyes are blazing with anger. “No one touches you again. No one hurts you again. Not while I’m breathing.”
