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A wolfish grin spread on his face. He moved her until her heels hit the desk behind her, caging her against it. “What are you trying to figure out in that big brain of yours?”

“I saw how easily you kill.” She swallowed, thinking back to his earlier answer. “What put you on that path?”

“Spare me the Caster righteousness.”

“Perhaps I talk too much about the war. But you seem incapable of talking about it at all. Not even with your friends.”

Every muscle in him seemed to tense. “You want to know what happened to me?” He pushed himself off her, and the sudden loss of contact felt disorienting. Dawson shrugged out of his jacket, and she was unsure of what he would do next. “You’re a healer.”

With a fast move, he undid his bow tie and took it off. Next came the cuff links. Every motion seemed angry. Violent. Her hands held on to the edge of the wooden desk behind her. The white fabric of his shirt gave way to a muscled torso littered with scars. A map of his own suffering. He’s beautiful, she thought. Scars and all. He walked closer to her and braced one hand on the desk right next to her, caging her in. The dragon tattoo on his arm seemed to come alive, its scales moving over his flexing muscles.

He grabbed her hand and placed it on his naked chest. “You tell me what happened. No diagnostics spell. Let’s start with an easy one.”

She didn’t dare to breathe as he moved her hand across his chest to the first scar that looked like a star. There were several of those peppered across his body.

She swallowed hard, knowing the answer as she traced the deep wound.

“Go on,” he said in a cold voice.

“Ceraselte spell.” She had to heal quite a few of those during the war. Ceraselte corroded flesh and veins around the impact point.

“Good,” he said tauntingly. “What about this one?”

With a firm grip, he moved her hand across the smooth skin of his abdomen, and his lean muscles tightened slightly under her touch. A large cut. “Endare.”

He nodded. His teeth bit together hard as he moved her hand to the next scar. She had pushed too far. Demanded too much at once. For someone who never opened up to anyone, not even to his friends, giving her an answer to her first question had been a big step. She should have stopped then.

“Dawson, you don’t have to—”

“You wanted to know, Winters. Don’t back out now.”

He guided her hand to his side, where her fingers brushed against another large scar, slicing up diagonally.

“Qevium spell,” she said as she closed her eyes. Qeviums were horrendously painful. While endare lacerations continued to bleed, qeviums attacked the nerves and could linger for hours.

“Look at how good you are at this.” The praise felt like poison.

There were so many scars, it made her chest ache.

Dawson’s jaw was so clenched, his face so taut, it looked like it might crack. His bruising grip on her hand didn’t ease as he moved her fingers to his rib cage, right below his heart.

That scar was the only one she didn’t recognize. When her fingers brushed against it, his eyes darkened. She wasn’t sure what could have caused such an injury. Cuts in patterns. An inscription of some kind?

This scar had a different meaning because he had gone a shade paler. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stared into his eyes, finding nothing but cold mercury.

“Dawson.” Her voice sounded small. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

His hand on hers stilled, and something in his silver eyes softened just a tad. But when he spoke, his voice was rough. “Shame, because you’re so fucking good at it.”

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t respond. She wanted to apologize, but before she could say anything, his lips crashed into hers. This time, she responded with equal measure.

There was a push and a pull. Breathless kisses. With ease, he lifted her onto the desk and she locked her legs around his midsection. Her hand ran through his hair, pulling him closer. Everything around them ceased to exist.

A hand in her hair, he tilted her head back farther. She knew where this was going and had no willpower left to fight it. But she should. Spheres, she should stop this. But all she wanted to do was pull him closer.

His fingers skidded along the outside of her thigh, over her silk dress, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

With his body he pushed her flat on the desk, grabbing her wrists and pulling them above her head. Various items were knocked to the floor, but neither of them cared. His lips and tongue trailed down her jaw to her neck, and she burned with the need to feel him. Why was it that a simple touch from him made her head spin?