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In my childhood home, affection had been earned through good behavior and meeting Daddy’s expectations. I’d twisted myself into knots to please him, constantly anxious that he would withdraw his approval if I disappointed him.
Ever since I’d woken up in Mateo’s house, he had offered his attention freely, even stubbornly. Now that he’d seen my scar, he’d backed off, leaving me bereft.
I’d disappointed him with the physical flaws that I couldn’t change. There was no way I could modify that particular quality and earn his affection again. I couldn’t make this better with good behavior.
Although I felt moderately better now that I’d been able to style my curls and wear my own clothes, I missed the comfort of being swaddled in Mateo’s massive t-shirt, enfolded in his calming scent.
He wasn’t being cold or cruel this morning, but he didn’t encourage me to sit on his lap while he fed me breakfast, either. It seemed that he didn’t hate me or even dislike me as a person. He was genial while he cooked our meal, indicating that I should sit by the stove and watch him again. His big, warm body was so close to mine, but he was utterly beyond my reach.
After he’d seen the shameful scar that had ruined my physical appeal, I was no longer the perfect woman he’d so obviously desired. I was damaged. Unworthy. Unwanted.
I shuddered to think how he might be treating me now if he’d seen the extent of the repulsive marks carved into my thighs. He’d only glimpsed one of them, and that had been enough to earn his revulsion.
“I want to talk to you about what happened yesterday,” he announced when I finished the final bite of the omelet he’d prepared for me.
My stomach dropped. I didn’t want him to mention my scars or acknowledge them in any way. It was painful enough know that he was disgusted by them. Hearing him express that sentiment aloud would crush me.
His dark eyes roved over me, assessing my body language.
I realized I’d hunched my shoulders and hugged my arms around my middle, bracing myself for the pain of his censure.
“I didn’t let you go when you asked me to,” he said, his tone steady and even. Despite the reassuring cadence, he made no move to reach out and comfort me physically. “I broke your trust.”
“Oh.” I didn’t really know how to reply. He wasn’t saying anything cruel about my scars, but he wasn’t saying he wanted me, either.
“This is a two-way street, and I haven’t been fair to you,” he continued. “You promised me that I could trust you, but I failed to reciprocate. I’ve decided that you can go back to your classes. I’m choosing to trust that you won’t try to run from me, Sofia. I hope that in return, you will choose to trust me again.”
He was sending me back to my classes? I still hadn’t caved to his demand that I surrender my most important contact details to him. I hadn’t given him the information he needed to send the messages that would smooth over my sudden absence. He’d been so rigid and uncompromising when it came to my cooperation with my captivity.
Heat pulsed between my legs at the memory of his discipline. He’d been serious enough about enforcing his rules that he’d spanked me in punishment for my disobedience.
But now that he’d seen only one of my scars, he was relieved for the excuse to get some time away from me. He had a life to get on with, things to do that didn’t involve babysitting me.
“Okay,” I agreed softly, breathing through the knifing pain at the center of my chest.
When Mateo had held me over his knee with such harsh affection, I’d been foolish enough to believe that he wouldn’t withdraw that care if I disappointed him.
Why did I never learn? Time and time again, I deluded myself into thinking my world was a much brighter, more pleasant place than it actually was.
I got to my feet and stepped away from the kitchen island. Breakfast was over, and I was obviously being dismissed.
I straightened my spine and summoned up a cheery smile. “I’ll go get ready, then,” I announced. “I just need twenty minutes.”
I kept my stride casual and my shoulders back as I walked down the hall, making a conscious effort to hide the fact that I was devastated by his rejection. If I allowed my body language to reflect my misery, I would appear even more displeasing to Mateo. No one liked a moping girl.
Once I made it to the privacy of my bedroom, I willed myself to keep up the brave front. I didn’t have time for self-indulgent tears. Mateo was waiting to get me out of his house, so he could get on with his day. He’d been cordial with me over breakfast, and I didn’t want to jeopardize his lingering kindness. It was all the positive attention I had left, and I would bend over backward to keep it.
