Not scared of him, or of this.
Just, for once, at peace.
Chapter thirty-five
Circles
Becky
Carrson helps tug off my shirt, which is now a twisted mess, and then undresses himself.
“Uh,” I giggle, “I think we were supposed to do that before. Shouldn’t we getdressed now?”
“I want you naked,” he says, kissing my shoulder and then my neck. I drop my head to the side with a sigh. My limbs are heavy, humming, and satisfied.
“Need to see you in the light,” Carrson mumbles into my shoulder.
I laugh softly, thinking he’s right. It was dark the first time. We were half-dressed the second. I never really saw him like this either.
His eyes move first, then his hands follow, fingertips gliding over every dip and curve. He learns me, touches me with a quiet reverence. I keep my hands to myself. I don’t want to overuse my new privilege of touching him. Besides, seeing him naked is enough. Because he’s beautiful, hard in all the right places.
Strong and male and maybe…mine?
After he’s had his fill of exploring me, we lie on the blanket, the ground hard beneath my shoulder and hip. Carrson spoons me from behind, and I rest my head on his arm. His other hand comes around, tracing a shape across my chest, right between my breasts.
He repeats the motion, and I read it this time.
It’s a letter C.
“Haven’t you already marked me enough?” I ask sleepily. There are bite marks and bruises scattered across my skin, brown, black, and blue, but they don’t hurt.
“Never enough,” he whispers in my ear.
“Are you thinking of your knife right now?” I ask, already sure of his answer.
“Maybe.” His teeth scrape against my ear. Tender but sharp. That about sums him up.
I capture his hand, resting on my hip, and bring it to my mouth, kissing the back. His skin is warm, slightly rough, beneath my lips. A contented murmur rises from behind me.
I keep hold of his hand, tracing the lines on his skin with my fingers. His scars. I remember telling Remi about this in a letter, how I dreamed of touching him like this. Without distance. No fear.
Smiling to myself, I follow the lines on the backs of his hands, mapping them out slowly, like if I learn them well enough I’ll understand him better. White streaks and thin slashes. Some faint, some deeper, overlapping each other. I can tell they’re earned. Fights. Training. I’ve seen him in the clearing. The way hekeeps going past the point where anyone else would stop. The split knuckles. The blood he never seems to notice.
This fits that version of him.
This makes sense.
But as my fingers move toward his wrists, the pattern changes.
The lines blur together. Until they’re no longer separate marks. One continuous band. A ring of white circling his wrist. His other hand, the one near my cheek, is the same. I frown and let my thumb brush over the skin. His scars are different there. Thicker. Raised.
White rings. Circles.
A memory flickers in my mind, half-formed. Floating in my peripheral vision.
“Becky?” Carrson must sense the change in me, the way I’ve gone rigid. He rises to his elbow, says my name again, but I’m not listening.
I shake him off, stare closer, trying to make sense of it. What could make marks like that?
