“Can I see it?”
I cover his hand with mine, threading my fingers through his and guiding them down, pulling the fabric aside, exposing the ruined skin beneath. A rush of cool air hits the scar and I flinch, every muscle tensing at the vulnerability of being laid bare like this, in the dark, in front of him.
I feel his gaze on my neck, on the jagged ridge of healed flesh, the puckered scar that marks where a bond was ripped away. His free hand rises, fingertips trembling just above my skin. “Can I touch it?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
The first feather-light press of his finger against my scar sends a shiver through me. He traces its edge where damage gives way to smooth skin, following the curve from below my ear toward my shoulder. His breathing has gone shallow, his finger shaking as he maps the wound, learning its shape, its depth, and what was done to me.
“He did this to you,” he whispers, voice raw. “My brother did this. And I let it happen.”
I curl my hand around his wrist, holding his fingers gently against my neck. “You didn’t let anything happen. I got it removed the only way I knew how.” I could have waited for it to go through the legal channels but it would have taken years and proof I didn’t have. Sebastian’s threats were never physical.
“I was there. In that bed, and I didn’t see—”
“No one saw. Sebastian made sure of that.” I press my palm to his wrist. “It’s not on you, Nico.”
He pauses at the deepest part of the scar, the center where the scar is thickest, where the flesh was torn away. His thumb brushes along the lower edge, tracing skin untouched for two years. My eyes close as tenderness overwhelms me, his care for the most painful part of me almost too much to bear.
“I used the same doctor.” I whisper the words, voice barely more than a breath. “Later. For someone else. An Omega who needed to get free the same way I did.”
Nicholas’ finger stills against my neck. “You helped someone else do this?” he asks.
“On my last day at Hearthstone. A kid named Luca who was trapped the same way I was. I gave him the number.”
He presses his forehead into my shoulder, his face against the curve of my neck opposite the scar. His hand stays over the ruined skin, palm flat against the scar. “You’re incredible.” His lips brush my throat. “You survived that and then you turnedaround and helped someone else survive it. Will, do you have any idea what you are?”
I shrug, unable to lift more than a shoulder. “A mess. Mostly.”
He laughs, damp and raw against my neck. “A mess who saved someone’s life.”
My hand finds the back of his head as he pulls back and kisses me again. It starts gentle, then his hand tightens on my neck, pressing his palm against the scar, claiming it with his warmth. I open for him. My lips part, my tongue slides against his, and his groan vibrates through us both. His other arm wraps around my waist, lifting me off the stool and pressing me against his chest and I let him, because my body has already decided, even if my brain is still running through all the ways this could end badly.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw. Down the side of my neck, following the line of my throat, and I feel the moment he reaches the edge of the scar. His lips press against the raised tissue and every muscle in my body locks.
“This okay?” His breath is warm against the scar.
“Yeah.” The word is barely a sound.
His mouth traces the scar the way his finger did, following the ridges, and the puckered edges, pressing gentle kisses against skin that has only known violence and surgical tools. My grip on his hair tightens as a sound leaves my throat that I don’t recognize, something between a moan and a sob, and Nicholas’ arm tightens around my waist, holding me upright because my knees have decided they’re done participating.
His lips find the deepest part of the scar and press there as I shake against him, tears running down my face, but I don’t pull away. I don’t run. I stand in the dark with Nicholas’ mouth on the worst part of me and let him stay there.
When he lifts his head his eyes are shiny with tears and his lips are wet and his expression carries something that makes my breath hitch. “Will.”
And then he kisses me again.
17
Nicholas
Wilson’s mouth tastes like salt and cinnamon. I’m still at the bar, palm flat against the scar on his neck, his fingers tangled in my shirt, when a low laugh cuts through the dark behind us.
“If I leave you two down here, you’ll find a way to sleep down here and then someone’s going to find you passed out on the bar at six AM. I’m not explaining that to the delivery crew.”
Lorenzo’s leaning in the office doorway, dressed in only a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. His eyes flick from Wilson’s face to my hand on his neck to the tear tracks drying on our cheeks, and the corner of his mouth quirks.
Wilson pulls back, his grip on my shirt loosening as he straightens his collar and wipes his face with the back of his wrist. “We were just—”
