Page 48

I place them onto my tongue and let him feed me a drink of water to swallow them down with.

Lucien sighs, and nods at me as if he is truly incredibly relieved.

“Why do you care if I take them?” I whisper.

“Because I cannot watch you in pain.” His words are gentle, but his tone is not. Like he cannot stand the fact he cares about my discomfort.

He glances down at my thighs, then over at the razor that now lies in pieces on the floor.

Uncomfortable, I press my legs together.

How did he know?

Once again, the idea that he has been watching me flits into my mind, but it almost instantly dissolves and floats away because Lucien is getting down on his knees in front of me.

As I watch him, he reaches out with torturously slow hands. I wince as his touch meets my legs.

I never let anyone see this part of me. I keep my scars covered. Always.

Steven saw them, and he was appalled. His eyes grew dark, and he tutted, and told me never to let him see them again.

After that, we had sex in the dark. I showered with the door locked and made sure I was fully covered by a towel before I entered the bedroom.

I look down at Lucien. His eyes meet mine as he catches the hem of the towel and slides it further up my legs. Over my thighs until I am fully exposed.

My skin is still damp, still warm, and I am not wearing any underwear.

He parts my legs, and exhales slowly. Then he takes his hand and moves it over my inner thigh. His palm levitates above my skin. He does not touch me, but the change in pressure of the air between us makes me shudder.

When he does touch me, it is with one finger only. He traces each scar slowly, and I watch him transfixed.

“Did you do this to yourself kitten?” he breathes.

I nod, unable to speak.

His eyes flash with anger, but not the anger that Steven showed me. Lucien’s anger is different. He is not ashamed of me or of the scars. He is angry that I felt the need to do this to myself.

He does not ask me why.

He just moves slowly closer, still on his knees in front of me.

His hands slide round to hold my hips, and he fixes his gaze on mine. “When did you last hurt yourself?” he asks.

I swallow hard. I want to tell him I haven’t done it for years, but that would be a lie.

“A month ago.” I point to my ankle. The faint outline of a cut from a razor blade is just about visible.

He cups my heel with both hands and lifts my foot to his mouth, then kisses it. My ankle. The scar.

I close my eyes, and a soft murmur parts my lips.

But then he lowers my foot back to the floor and meets my eyes again. “You were thinking about hurting yourself here? In my house?”

“It makes me feel... in control.” I have never tried to explain to anyone before.

Lucien’s jaw twitches. He licks his fangs.

This time, firmly, he says, “You will never hurt yourself again.” He holds my gaze, and I simply cannot look away.