The words hung between them, simple but heavy. His throat tightened. He’d spent years locking this shit down, burying it so deep he could pretend it didn’t exist. But Cian’s gaze was steady, his presence a solid weight in the dark. If there was ever a time to rip off the bandage, it was now, when they were alone, when the world outside this room didn’t exist.
“There’s something you should know.” Damn, his voice was rough. “About my past.”
Cian’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled. “I’m listening.”
Reaper swallowed and decided it was better to just spit it out and get it over with. “His name was Derek. He was…” He forced the words out. “My lover for a time.”
Cian’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flickered with something dark and primal. “The one on the talking box.”
Talking box?
Phone?
Shit.
He went still. “How do you know about that?”
“I heard him.” Cian’s voice was flat and deadly. “At the Dolmen. When you spoke to him.”
“You were there?”
Cian nodded, his fingers flexing against his skin. “It was the closest I could be to you without crossing through the door,” he explained. “I wanted to tear his throat out.”
Reaper’s breath hitched. The idea that Cian had wanted to be close to him, even though a portal, was kinda sweet. “He’s a cop—the law. Or he was. San Diego PD, not that you know where that is.” Cian wouldn’t know where the next place was either, but he figured it didn’t matter. “He’s the reason I transferred to Dam Neck.”
The bed creaked as he shifted, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. The mating mark on his arm pulsed like a second heartbeat.
Cian’s fingers traced idle circles on his stomach. “He hurt you.” It was a statement rather than a question.
He exhaled through his nose, the old shame curling in his gut. “Yeah.”
“Badly.”
A bitter laugh clawed its way out. “Bad enough.”
Cian’s hand stilled. He sat up and turned to face him. His expression was unreadable. “Show me.”
His stomach dropped. “What?”
“Show me where he hurt you.” Cian’s voice was weird, even for him. “Every mark. Every scar.”
He wanted to refuse, to bury it all back down where it belonged. But the look in Cian’s eyes brooked no argument. Something he didn’t understand thrummed in the bond between them like a plucked string. Swallowing hard, he sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. His fingers trembled as he touched the faint white line above his collarbone. “Here, the first time.”
Cian’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”
His hand dropped to his ribs, tracing the thicker scar there. “Broken ribs. Twice.” His voice was steady and clinical, like he was reporting intel. Anything to keep the tremors at bay. “Left arm.” He touched the faint circle of lighter skin near his wrist as he tried to figure out how to explain what a cigarette was. “Smoking stick.”
A growl rumbled in Cian’s chest and his pulse jumped, but he didn’t stop. He turned, showing Cian the cluster of marks along his shoulder blades. “Belt buckle.”
Cian’s fingers followed the path of his, his touch feather-light, like he was memorizing the shape of every injury. When Reaper faced him again, Cian’s hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “And here?”
Reaper didn’t have to ask what he meant. His fingers went to the spot where his jaw hinged, where the bone had once been fractured. “Yeah.”
Cian sucked in a breath. Then before he could react, the warrior surged forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss. Reaper gasped, his hands flying to Cian’s shoulders, but he didn’t push away. The kiss was filled with possessiveness, and he met it with his own desperation, his nails digging into Cian’s skin.
When they broke apart, Cian’s forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling. “He will die for this.”
Reaper’s heart stuttered. “Cian?—”
