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He shifted his weight, moving off me so that he laid on the bed beside me. He didn’t stop petting me, and I was so grateful for the contact that my heart squeezed in my chest.
“There is nothing you could show me that will change the way I feel about you,” he swore. “Let me see.”
I couldn’t refuse him. Not without pushing him away. And I needed him too desperately to risk that. I could only hope that he would keep his promise.
If I bared myself to him only to be rejected, I’d break again, just like I did when I was thirteen years old. And this time, I wasn’t sure if I’d be strong enough to stop myself from repeating the cycle of addiction and shame.
Closing my eyes, I fisted the soft material of my dress in both hands. I felt the swirling ridges of the pretty, decorative embroidery against my palms as I revealed the ugliest parts of my body to him.
I heard Mateo hiss in a disgusted breath, and I withered inside.
“This wasn’t an accident,” he said tightly.
“No,” I admitted thickly, my tears coming faster. “It wasn’t.”
Nothing accidental could have left the neat, perfectly straight lines that marked my flesh. Some were longer than others, some deeper. Most were vertical, but a handful of horizontal and diagonal patterns broke up the monotony. The lightest scars were as thin and fine as white thread. The deepest were dark, puckered furrows. Like the one on my inner thigh.
“Who did this to you, Sofia?’ he demanded, completely repulsed by the sight of me.
I cringed, wishing I could sink into the mattress and disappear.
His thumb hooked beneath my jaw, tipping my face back. “Look at me,” he ordered.
My eyes opened, automatically responding to his command. Hot tears obscured my vision, and I was relieved that I didn’t have a clear image of his contempt to burn into my brain forever.
“You have to tell me who did this,” he insisted.
“Me,” I said miserably. “I did it.”
“Don’t blame yourself for what was done to you,” he growled. “Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll take care of it.”
My stomach twisted, far more painful than any of the tidy little marks I’d cut into my skin. I batted his hands from my face, pushing up onto my elbows and scooting away from him.
“I do blame myself, because I did it!” I yelled the awful truth at him, so he would understand the full horror of what I’d done. “I’m the one who ruined my body! It was a stupid, angsty teenage phase, and I ruined my body forever because I had behavioral issues.” The words were bitter on my tongue, and I heard my mother’s voice issuing from my own lips.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, the rough quality to his tone softened by confusion. “You hurt yourself?”
“Aren’t you listening?” I demanded, furious that he was making me repeat my sin, forcing me to expound upon my shame. “Yes, okay? Yes, I cut myself up because I was an idiotic thirteen-year-old girl who couldn’t cope with life, even though I was spoiled beyond most kid’s wildest dreams.”
“But why would you do that?” Mateo was utterly baffled.
Of course he was. I’d been raised in a home with everything a child could possibly want. I knew full well that my actions had been ridiculous in the extreme.
“Ask my therapist,” I replied with venom. “Daddy sent me to the most expensive shrink he could find. I’m sure she could explain it far better than I could.”
“I’m asking you,” he said, his voice dropping to the deep register that resonated in my bones.
His arms wrapped around me. I tried to twist away, but he held me firm, tucking me against his chest. His fingers wiped at the tears on my cheeks, his unexpected, tender touch stemming the flow.
I blinked, clearing my vision so that he came into full focus. He stared down at me, his brow furrowed with concern, not disgust.
His hand rested on my thigh, touching my scars. I tensed, but he kept his palm flush with my skin, his thumb dipping lower to trace the line of the deep furrow he’d discovered when he’d spanked me.
The direct contact with the hideous marks confused me. Why wasn’t he tugging my dress down to hide them from his sight?
“Explain this to me.” His cadence was calm but stern.
“Like I said. It was a stupid teenage phase.” The assertion was much weaker than it had been before, tinged with the pain I kept carefully buried beneath the weight of my shame.
I didn’t deserve to indulge in that pain, because my behavior didn’t warrant any pity or comfort. I bore the shame as my well-deserved penance.
His black gaze was steady and deep. I wanted to get swallowed up in those warm, dark pools and never surface.
