On impulse, I glance at his forearm.
The chain clinks as he lifts his hand and trails his fingertips over his inked skin. He watches me, observing the way I follow his movements. “Some were a gift, and some were a punishment. My stepfather had a particular way of distinguishing both.”
This is the first time he’s mentioned a parent. “Your stepfather was abusive,” I prompt him.
An amused smile lights his face. “You don’t like following your own rules.”
I let a tight smile frame my lips. “You’re right, it’s your turn. Ask away.”
He bites down on his bottom lip as he considers me. My breathing becomes a measure too deep, too loud, too revealing in the still room.
“The pain in your back,” he says. “Tell me what happened to you.”
I flick my bangs from my forehead with a head shake, then I present the practiced answer I crafted years ago. “I was involved in a car accident when I was a teenager, and as a result, my back was fractured in several places. My lumbar suffered the most damage. I never fully recovered.”
Disappointment creases his eyes. “That’s not all.”
“That’s all, Grayson. That’s all there is.”
“Why do you cover up the tattoo on your hand? Tell me about it,” he demands.
“But it’s my turn.”
“No,” he says, his tone a dark boom. “I want to know why you got the ink, London. Tell me?—”
“You’re out of line,” Iinterrupt.
“You didn’t give me an honest answer before. I want to know this.”
I drag in a quick breath, my agitation growing. “I got it when I was young?—”
“Around the time of your accident?”
I hesitate. “Yes, and like many young adults, I did so impulsively. I conceal it now out of professionalism.”
“Why not just have it removed?”
My heart pounds inside my chest, the rapid pulse at my temples triggering pain through my skull. I rub the back of my neck. “I don't know why, Grayson,” I admit wearily, offering him the only answer I have.
As if searching for a crack in my defense, his penetrating gaze probes me before he finally relents, giving a slight nod.
I straighten my spine. “Are all of your scars from your stepfather?” I ask. “What about your mother?”
“No,” he says, lifting his chin. “Not all of them.”
When I tap my fingers on my thigh and tilt my head expectantly, he groans. “It’s only fair that you indulge me since I indulged you.”
His jaw works, a muscle jumping along the side, as something devious heats his eyes. “Careful,” he says, voice dropping dangerously low. “I might read too much into how badly you want to indulge me.”
An ache flutters deep in my core at his insinuation, and I’m forced to break eye contact. “Grayson, please answer the question.”
He makes an amused sound as he shifts in his seat, then says, “My mother liked to watch, Dr. Noble, but we’re not talking about it today. You’re not ready.”
This draws my attention back to him, and I frown. “The very definition of my job is being prepared to talk you through it, Grayson.”
“Hmm,” he hums, eyes lowering to my thighs before rovingback up. “When it comes time, I’ll be the one to talk you through it, doctor.”
Heat flushes through my skin, my pulse thrashes wildly in my veins as I control my features.
