Page 23 of This Reckless Home

“You showed me yours,” he says quietly. “Fair's fair I show you mine.”

My hand, which has been absently tracing his scars, stills. “You don't have to⁠—”

“I want to.” He catches my hand, guides it to the worst scar—a vicious, puckered thing that bisects his chest. “Foster home. I was twelve. The father didn't like that I stood up to him when he went after one of the younger kids.”

My heart clenches. “Steele…”

“He had a knife. Liked to use it.” His voice is matter-of-fact, but I can feel the tension in his body, in the way his muscles are coiled and stiff. “This one was because I got between him and a six-year-old girl who'd wet the bed.”

I press a kiss to the scar, feeling him shudder beneath me.

“This one—” he guides my hand to his shoulder, where the skin is mottled and uneven, “—cigarette burns. Too many to count. He'd do it while I slept, thought it was funny to wake me up that way.” His abdomen is also covered in cigarette burns, they’re everywhere and my throat closes at the thought of all the times as a child Steele was burned.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, tears burning my eyes again.

“The one on my face?” His jaw clenches. “That was the last one he ever gave me. I was fourteen, bigger by then. He came at me with the knife again and I…” He swallows hard. “I fought back. Put him in the hospital. That's how I ended up in the group home where I met Anatole and Nox.”

I shift up so I can cup his scarred cheek, the one with the vicious line bisecting it. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

“Don't be sorry. That's where I found my brothers. That's what led me here, to you.” His brothers. Who'd spent years trying to keep Justin with them. Who'd come here with nothing and were building something, for Jus, for each other. And somehow for me too. His hand covers mine on his face. “You said you felt broken when you found out about the MRKH. I felt the same way about these.” He gestures to his scarred body. “Thought they made me a monster. That I was as violent and damaged as the man who gave them to me. That he just helped show on the outside what was rotten inside.”

“You're not a monster,” I say fiercely, echoing his words to me.

“I think I might be starting to believe that.” He looks at me with a small smile and my heart skips a beat. “But Flower? I need you to understand something. These scars, your condition—they're just parts of our story. They don't define us unless we let them. And I’ve been doing that for far too long. It stops now.”

“When did you get so wise?” I ask, my voice thick with emotion.

“Since I met a woman who turns trauma into love. Who takes broken kids and shows them what home means.” His thumb brushes across my cheekbone and I feel all the skin on my body flush at his words, at the gentle praise in them. “You taught me that, whether you know it or not.”

I lean down, kiss him softly. “We're quite the pair, aren't we? Both broken in different ways.”

“Not broken.” His arms tighten around me. “Survivors. There's a difference.”

“Survivors,” I repeat, testing the word. Liking how it feels.

“And Flower? Those scars on my body? I'd take a thousand more if it meant keeping you and the kids safe. That's what I'm good at—protecting what's mine.”

My breath hitches. “Yours?”

“Ours,” he corrects, that dark intensity returning to his eyes and my heart skips another beat. “Mine, Anatole's, Nox's. You're ours, Blossom. And we're going to spend every day proving to you that your father is wrong. That you're not broken or flawed or any of the shit he made you believe.”

I can't speak past the lump in my throat, so I just kiss him again, pouring everything I can't say into it.

When we break apart, both breathless, he smirks. “Besides, you've got your own mark on me now.”

I look down, seeing again the raised welts my nails left on his mahogany skin — raised slightly, like brands — the bite marks on his collarbone where I'd lost control. “Oh god, I'm so sorry⁠—”

“I told you last night, don't be.” His grin is wicked. “I love seeing my marks on you, Flower.” His eyes trace the marks on my pale skin slowly, something fierce and satisfied in his expression, and I feel seen in a way that has nothing to do with shame. “Only fair you leave yours on me too. We're even.”

“We've marked each other,” I say softly.

“Yeah, we have.” He pulls me close again, tucking my head under his chin. “And I'm not planning on letting you go.”

We lie there in the golden morning light, two scarred survivors who've somehow found each other, and for the first time in a long time, I feel truly seen.

Not despite my scars, but because of them.

Not despite his darkness, but because of it.