“I should’ve known,” I repeat, voice breaking.
Bree watches me for a long moment, her hand still cradling my face. Then she leans forward, pressing her forehead to mine.
“Then let’s make something that’s ours,” she says softly. “Right now. Just us. No ghosts. No lies. Just this.”
My breath catches.
“Bree—”
But she’s already kissing me.
Soft at first. Tentative. Like she’s asking permission.
And I answer.
My hands move to her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss deepens, and the guilt twists harder in my chest—but so does the need.
The need to prove thatthisis real. Thatshe’sreal. That I can tell the difference.
When she pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“I want this,” she whispers, her lips brushing mine. “With you. Here. Now.”
Her hand slides down my chest, fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt.
“Let’s make a memory that’s just ours.”
My throat’s too tight to answer, so I just nod.
And kiss her again.
This time, I don’t hold back.
My hands slide under her shirt pushing it up slowly. She lifts her arms, helping me pull it over her head, and the fabric falls away.
She’s bare underneath.
And I freeze.
Silver lines trace across her ribs. Her hip. The underside of her breast. Some are thin and faded, barely visible in the morning light. Others are raised, pink and angry, like what Kevin did to her can never fully heal.
They map her entire body like a language I’m only just learning to read.
And they’rehers.
“Jace,” she whispers, and there’s uncertainty in her voice now. Her arms start to cross over her chest, covering herself.
I catch her wrists gently, stopping her.
“Don’t,” I say, voice rough. “Don’t hide from me.”
She meets my eyes, and I see it—the fear still there under all the healing she’s done. That I’ll be repulsed. That I’ll see damage instead of survival.
So I show her.
I lean down and press my mouth to the scar that runs along her collarbone. Then the one on her ribs. The one on her hip.
She gasps, hands unclenching.
