His fingers traced the bone, slow, and then he moved down to my wrist. “How long did you leave it untreated?”
“Too long,” I breathed. He hummed, not unkind, just matter of fact.
His touch was warm and steady, so different from the fluorescent-lit, latex-glove indifference of doctors. He moved to my right arm, searching, and I realized I was holding my breath.
“Relax,” he said. His thumb glided over the faint bump at my knuckles, and then he turned my hand over, palm up. I couldn’t look away from the way his big hand dwarfed mine.
“Scar here.” He stroked the silvery line at the base of my thumb. “Tell me.”
“Box cutter. Stockroom,” I blurted. My face burned. “Stupid mistake.”
He kept rubbing, gentle now. “You heal slow?”
I shook my head. “Just…clumsy.”
He didn’t argue. Just let his gaze move over my shoulders, down my chest. I tried not to tense when his fingers drifted over my ribs. I knew what he’d find. The muscle there was gone, replaced by something softer. I didn’t even like looking at myself anymore.
But he didn’t flinch.
He thumbed a spot just under my left pectoral, and I jerked.
“Sensitive.” He sounded pleased. His hand splayed wide, covering my entire chest, and I could feel his heat burning through me.
His fingers traced the skin over my ribs, pausing over each hollow spot, then drifting to the pale line just above my groin. “Surgery?”
I nodded. “Appendix. Years ago.”
He ran the back of his knuckles down my stomach, and I had to grab the edge of the table to stay upright. The touch wasn’t rough. It just felt like he owned every inch he touched. Like I couldn’t keep a single thing from him.
He let the silence linger, fingers tracing patterns over my skin. He hooked a finger under the waistband of my dress pants, tugged me half a step closer. “Have you got more scars?”
I nodded, but it took me a second to remember how to speak. His eyes on me short-circuited everything else.
“My knee,” I finally managed. “Surgery again. Tore it in college.” My stomach flipped. I waited for him to start lecturing me, or just shake his head and walk out. Instead, Felix’s undid my pants and his thumb traced an old scar at my hip, slow andcareful, and I shivered. I couldn't even remember how I'd gotten that one. He made a circular motion with his finger, and I turned obediently. I knew he’d see the scar on my back.
“That wasn’t an accident,” he murmured, voice flat. “This was made by a cane or a crop.”
It wasn’t a question. “Yes, sir.”
“Distinct linear scars that cross directly over the spine—a place every trained Dom avoids due to risk of nerve or bone injury.”
Shame flooded me, even though I knew it hadn’t been my fault. I nodded, even though it made my throat close up. “He…sometimes the scenes got rough. I told him, but…it’s fine.”
Felix’s hand stilled.
“No,” he said, and it was sharp, final, not up for argument. “It’s not fine.”
I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. I stared at the spot on the floor, heat flooding my face. Felix reached out and smoothed a hand between my shoulder blades, just once. Then, almost gently, he lifted my arm and turned me so he could see the line that dragged across my lower back.
“It was an accident.” My voice sounded thin, desperate. I wanted Felix to believe that. I didn’t want to think every year with Jason was a mistake. No, Ineededto believe every year with Jason wasn’t a mistake.
Felix’s fingers traced the scar, callused and warm, an endless slow press that made my breath catch. “It’s on him, not you.”
I waited for anger. Instead, he just kept my arm firm in his grip, thumb rubbing over the scar until I could almost forget what it was.
“Did you heal fully?” The words were low, pitched for me alone.
“Fine,” I whispered. “He put ointment on it. We waited. I…” I swallowed. What could I say?
