Page 22 of Scarred

EIGHT

LUNA

I watch him fight for the one thing he tries so hard to hang on to as he weighs what I just said. His whole stance is tense, and part of me wonders if he’ll take the easy way out and leave. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be here, but I haven’t figured out why.

“Don’t hold your breath with that one,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “I don’t give up control easily.”

“And I don’t back away from a challenge.” I break eye contact and walk over to the table. Pulling my hoodie over my head, I strip down to my sports bra. Sweat is already forming down my back, and I’ve never felt this out of it with a client.

Nothing could have shocked me more than to see Cayden standing here when I came in, looking every bit as devastatingly handsome as I remembered him.

Determined to put on a professional stance and get through this session in one piece, I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and turn to face my new client.

His eyes rake down my chest before holding me captive with their dark intensity. His hands fist at his sides before he slowly unclenches them and grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head, leaving him standing there with grey sweats hanging low on his hips.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says sharply, his jaw hard and rigid. “It’s hot as hell in here and since you stripped first…,” he shrugs his shoulders and throws his shirt on the table.

I try not to stare, but there’s not a single thing on this Earth that could have stopped me from taking in the sight before me.

I’m drawn to the broad planes of his chest, the distinct lines of muscle shifting subtly with every breath. There’s a quiet strength there—controlled and restrained—and it does something dangerous to my pulse as I feel it rapidly increase.

The dark ink across his heart is haunting as wings stretch over his chest.

One side is darker—heavier. Like it’s been dragged through something that scarred its beauty, and barely made it out alive—the feathers maimed and broken.

The other wing, opposite his heart, is lighter, almost translucent, as if it’s trying to become something whole again.

And between them—a crack.

Deep and permanent, splitting the wings right down the center.

Every inch of him is built like armor, as if he’s spent years holding everything in and refusing to let anything through. My eyes trail lower following the deep ridges of his abs, and for a brief, reckless second, I wonder what it would take to break through that shield he’s constructed around him and how it would feel to be let in.

Clearing my throat and thoughts, I refuse to let him distract me from my job, no matter how tempting he may be.

“Let’s start on our mats for breathing,” I say, ignoring his comment about me stripping first. I know he’s baiting me and hoping I’ll get uncomfortable enough to bail on him. He clearly doesn’t know me well enough because I don’t give up easily. I didn’t get to where I am today with dance without a lot of hard work and persistence.

I sit cross-legged on my mat and pat the spot next to me.

He stares at the spot and hesitates briefly when he realizes I’m going through with this, but he doesn’t argue with me as he takes a seat on the mat next to mine.

“Before we begin, tell me more about this pain you’ve been having,” I ask, once he’s settled next to me.

“Started a couple of years ago. I thought maybe I had injured myself somehow, and started physical therapy sessions, but nothing seems to help. Just comes with the territory, I suppose.” He leans back on his hands and focuses on a spot on the floor in front of him.

“Territory…meaning the sport you play?” He nods, but doesn’t elaborate. “Which is?” I ask when it’s clear he’s done talking.

His head whips up, a surprised look on his face. “You really don’t know, do you?” His lips slightly lift at the corner as if what I asked was funny to him. “Hockey. I play hockey.”

“Hockey?” I expected football or maybe even basketball from his height, but I didn’t expect him to be skating around on ice.

“Yes, hockey. You know, the sport where you try to get the black thing called a puck into a net?” He’s full on mocking me now as I roll my eyes.

“I know what hockey is,” I mutter.

“Just making sure,” he chuckles softly.

“How long have you been playing?”