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She made herself look at his face. Made herself see every terrible emotion there, even if it broke her. The love she craved. The hesitation she feared. The compassion she needed, and the sympathy she never wanted.
“My shirt was polyester. Flammable. I didn’t get out of the car fast enough. My shirt caught on fire, burning my stomach and back. I’m told I was only on fire for a very short time, but it did more than enough damage.”
“You don’t have to show me if you’re not ready,” he said. “Whatever it is, I don’t care. I love you.”
He reached for her again, but she jerked back. “No! You need to see it. Then you’ll know why you have to go.”
“Erica, I don’t care if you have scars, damn it! I’m not leaving you.”
“Spare me. My fiancé left me because of them. I’ve lived like a nun since the accident. Don’t patronize me when you haven’t even seen them yet.”
She lifted her chin and gathered her courage. This was the moment when everything would change. All the love and desire in his eyes would change to disgust and pity.
She wanted to close her eyes and shut him out, but she wouldn’t. She refused to back down now. If nothing else, the horror in Jeremy’s eyes would reinforce her reasons for never letting anyone close again.
Her hands were frozen, unresponsive. Slowly, moving like a creaking doll, she pulled her shirt up and waited—waited for him to recoil and turn away in disgust.
But his eyes remained on her face, his jaw clenched, his fists tight. “You don’t need to do this,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m sorry for upsetting you so much. Put your shirt down.”
She shook her head. She could barely see him through the tears, but she held her ground. “No. Look. Or leave now. Either way, you’ll go.”
His gaze dropped slowly, inch by agonizing inch. She knew the moment the reality of her twisted body struck him. He paled and sank down on the arm of the couch, shaking. His eyes squeezed shut. Of course they did. Closing out her ugliness. Her repulsiveness. He wasn’t the first to be disgusted by her—but he would be the last, damn it all to hell.
She’d known how this would end. She’d tried to avoid it, but he wouldn’t give up. He’d made her expose herself—her shame, her disfigurement—and made her let him in. For what? What had she gained from this besides pain and mortification?
She dropped her shirt back into place. The salt taste of her tears choked her. He still hadn’t moved. He just sat there like a statue, amazingly crafted, beautiful and untouchable. She couldn’t stand to look at him right now, so handsome when she was so ugly. Her heart lurched. She couldn’t breathe.
Why had she let him in?
She needed to escape. Even another second with him was too much. “You know your way out,” she choked out and, turning, bolted up the stairs.
In the safety of her room, she closed the door, locked it, and threw herself on the empty bed. Curling into the fetal position, she clutched her legs tight to her chest. Maybe if she made a small enough bundle, she could squeeze all the pain down into a tiny knot she could stuff away in the smallest corner of her. Maybe then, she’d feel better.
And maybe if she scrunched her eyes shut and blocked out the world, it would just…disappear, and take Jeremy Addison with it.
Chapter Six
Jeremy opened his eyes in time to watch her flee. He kicked the cou
ch. Fucking idiot. Why hadn’t he said something? Why hadn’t he heard about this? If he’d known, he could have been there for her. Held her hand. Supported her through this, and made sure she knew every day what a beautiful, amazing woman she was.
She’d thought he would be disgusted with her? Repulsed by a few scars?
He was a Marine. His fellow soldiers, men and women he trusted with his life, the only family that had welcomed him when Tommy had turned him away…they’d all been shot, burned, or torn apart by first-hand lessons in explosive warfare. Half were dead. He had a bullet hole in his shoulder, sustained over a year ago in a nasty fight in Fallujah.
He knew scars. He saw them every day. The fact that she was still alive was a miracle, not something to be embarrassed about. Her scars told the story of her life. Of her strength. She’d been through an accident and lived. She hadn’t given up. Hadn’t died.
She was here. And damn it, she was his.
He’d waited too long to love her the way she deserved. He wasn’t about to wait a second longer. The pain in her eyes when she’d bared herself to him, the determination when she’d refused to look away from his scrutiny, only made him love her more. Her bravery and honesty in the face of what she’d thought was certain revulsion and rejection impressed him far more than flawless skin ever could.
Did Erica really think he was shallow enough to run from her? Like her yellow-bellied, pathetic excuse for an ex-fiancé? He curled his fists. That bastard. He’d like to show that coward how it felt, after he’d made her feel so inferior. But Erica needed him. Needed more than his anger. She needed his honesty, his love, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t give them to her.
Marks on a body didn’t matter. The marks she’d left on his heart were more permanent than scars, and eternally more binding.
He took the stairs two at a time and tried every room upstairs until he found one locked at the end of the hall. Hers, without a doubt. He took a calming breath and knocked.
“Erica? Can I come in?”
