“I did.”
His thumb traces the top scar, lightly grazing over the raised blemish.
“It’s nothing,” I say, desperate for him to move on, to not ask me any more questions, to just drop it.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me as his thumb moves to the next scar, then traces the third and final angry slash. His thumb is gentle as he traces each raised defect made by my own hand. His silence is too loud, too damning. I try to step away, but his hands grip the backs of my thighs, keeping me firmly in place.
“Why?” he asks.
A way to shut off the overwhelming voices in my head? A way to distract myself from everything that’s wrong? A way to control the uncontrollable?
“It’s something that I struggle with,” is all I can say.
“No. Why didn’t they heal? Your Fae blood should have healed them.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Tell me,” he orders, his fingertips digging into the backs of my thighs in a plea.
I hesitate, searching for the right way to say this. “Willa walked in on me and saw what I was doing. She…” I stumble, trying to figure out a way to explain this without making Willa seem like an absolute monster.
“Just tell me,” he says, staring up at me.
“She forced me to keep them open so they’d scar,” I whisper.
If this is something you’re going to do, you need to remember the toll it takes on your body. If you’re going to do something so terrible to yourself, you should never forget it.
I was fifteen. After she found me, she made me a drink a tonic that slowed my magic, and thus my body’s ability to heal itself. It took days for the skin to knit together. Every time I forgot about the wounds and moved too quickly, they’d rip back open. It was painful, but it was effective. I didn’t cut again for a long time. Every time I was tempted to, I’d remember that moment.
Asmo is silent for several moments before saying, “I’m sorry you felt the need to do that to yourself. I’m sorry that she forced that on you. Thank you for telling me.”
I begin to pull my dress down, but he stops me.
“No, it’s okay,” he says.
“They don’t bother you?” I hate myself for the question, for the doubt that creeps into my voice.
He cocks his head and furrows his brow. “Why would they bother me? I have scars, too.”
“But—”
He looks up at me, his gaze intense. “No, Mae. Let me show you exactly how little your scars bother me.”
He places a kiss on each scar, soft lips barely grazing each one. I stare at him, unable to move as he kisses each blemish, emotion threatening to overcome me.
Of all the males I’ve been with, nobody has ever reacted in this way. Most have ignored my scars or didn’t even notice them. One even looked disgusted when he first saw them. But no one has ever kissed them.
His kisses trail from my upper thighs to just above my center. His hands wrap around my backside again, but lower this time as if his fingers are going to enter me from behind. His fingers tease my entrance, feeling the slickness already gathered there. He moans as soon as he feels the pool waiting for him.
Suddenly, he turns me around so my backside is in his face, his hands holding me in place. Sharp teeth land on my backside, biting softly. My back arches, and I let out a gasp before I feel his tongue replacing where his teeth just were. He repeats the motion again, this time running a finger along my center.
“Asmo…” I’m so close to begging him to give me what I want.
“Yes, Mae?” his voice drawls from behind me.
I try to turn around, desperate to kiss him. But he holds me in place, facing away from him.
“Bend over,” he says roughly.
