I could’ve been fully clothed, drowning in multiple layers, but no amount of clothing could make me feel any less naked.
Caleb’s voice is deep but wavering on control.
“The scars . . .”
I hang my head. “I know... I’m a monster.”
“No, you’re not... Tell me who did this to you, and I will show you a monster,” Caleb growls.
I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. The truth is so much worse than that. It’s easier to grasp the idea that someone else would do this to me. Because who would voluntarily and repeatedly destroy themselves? Only a masochist, like me.
“I did.”
Caleb’s brows furrow with confusion. He’s trying to make sense of why someone would do this to themselves. How broken I must be to have caused my own pain in a world of suffering.
I gaze into his eyes, searching for a sign he understands. Pleading, I want him to see me differently. I want to be seen for more than just a monster. A veteran with wounds, perhaps. The physical battle may be over, but the mental war never ends.
I plead with my eyes,Please see me. I’m more than what you see.
But hope crashes down on me with the truth that although I have scars, the ones to worry about aren’t visible to the naked eye. And if he couldn’t handle my physical imperfections, how could he—or anyone—ever face the mental ones?
I avert my eyes.I’m too damaged.
He crooks a finger under my chin, gently forcing my gaze back to his. Sternly, he says, “You aremyprisoner. Your body belongs to me. From now on, any mark on your body is mine to make. Every bit of your pleasure and pain are mine and mine alone, to give. Because this one”—he tilts my thigh to reveal the deepest of my scars, the one on my femoral vein—“could have cost you your life. Something that is also up to me.”
He must be done.
But instead, he walks over and grabs the arrow sticking out of the ground. Its sharp, golden edge shines with a glare in themoonlight. Inspecting it, he runs his hand over its length. It’s not coming from a place of logic, but I melt into the feeling. He’s not scared of me. He doesn’t find me monstrous.
“You never used your safe word,” he says.
I can’t believe it. He wants to continue?
“You don’t find me . . . repulsive?”
Slowly, he saunters over to me. Gently, he cups my chin, lifting my face to his. “I don’t like tattoos or scars on my body. It’s too easy to pick someone out in a line up. I don’t like being trackable for my enemies. But on you...” A pointed edge drags over my scar, the pressure from the blade delicious. “...I prefer them.”
The endorphins kick in, and I moan, “Why?”
“Because, baby girl. Now, not only are you unable to run from me, you can’t hide from me either. You’ve just made yourself that much easier for me to find. So, thank you”—he drags the arrow from the spot he pricked and cuts shallowly along the scar—“for servicing your alpha... Your master...”
If the rope wasn’t holding me up, my knees would have buckled. His words could make anyone melt. And as he taught me in the last bet, I’m not above anyone.
Caleb steps away and strolls to a tree. It’s a tulip poplar, a natural disinfectant found in the wild. When he returns, he rubs its leaves between his fingers, extracting a gel-like substance, then runs it over the tip and arrow’s shaft. He turns and points it straight at me. “You’ll use your safe word to tell me if I hurt you, or it gets to be too much, yes?”
“I will.”
He makes long strides to close the distance between us and gives my body a once-over. He hums, “Good. Because I’m about to disrespect your body in ways that will make you scream.” He drags the pointed edge across preexisting scars, and I silently thank him for not making new ones.
I hiss, but the endorphins don’t fail to give me the rush I crave.
Caleb checks in with me. “How does that feel? Harder or softer?”
Ashamed at myself, I respond quietly. “Harder.”
“If you want anything from me, you’re going to have to speak up. I want you to tell meexactlyhow you like to be touched.”
“Harder,” I say louder.
