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He nods. “Okay. No problem. Did I hurt you?”
“No, it’s not that.” I lick my dry lips, suddenly aware I’m lying half-naked on my sofa, my breasts exposed and tingling, Ash sitting between my legs. “I can’t.”
I let go of his hands and they land on his thighs. He’s still breathing hard, and his erection is trapped in his jeans, curving sideways.
“I knew this was a mistake,” he says and starts to lift himself off the sofa. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Ash.” He’s about to leave—again—and I’m letting the past and my fears govern me when all I want is him. I fight for a deep breath. “It’s the scars.”
That’s the reason I never wear low-slung jeans like other girls. I always make sure the hated scar on my lower belly remains hidden.
He closes his eyes, those dark lashes sweeping his cheekbones. “Scars aren’t ugly, Auds.”
Those are the exact same words he used when we were little; I’m sure of that. I cherish that memory and have held onto it like a lifeline since the accident.
“Mine are.”
“I don’t believe it. They’re part of you. They mean you survived something ugly, but you’re alive, and you’re beautiful.”
His words bring a knot to my throat. I sit up, covering my breasts with my hands. “I never show my scars to anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone.” A side of his mouth tips up, and his eyes warm up.
He has no idea how true that is. There was only him, always. But still I hesitate.
“If I show you mine,” he says, “will you show me yours?”
Another snippet of memory from our shared childhood. It serves to calm my racing pulse. “I know your scars.”
He sits there, his jaw set. He just stares at me, not a muscle moving, though a vein beats frantically at his neck. “I have new ones since I last showed you.”
Dread settles like lead in my stomach. I have a feeling I know what he’s about to show me. “Are they bad?”
“Bad. Ugly. Unlike yours.” He stands up, reaches back and pulls the shirt over his head, making the muscles on his chest stretch and ripple in a mouthwatering way. His tattoo is breathtaking—a black dragon curling on his chest, the wings spreading on his shoulder and up his neck.
His eyes flutter closed and he draws a long breath, as if bracing himself.
Then he turns around.
Oh god. His back is a map of cruelty—vertical scars, old and new, some fading to white lines, some still purple and painful-looking, from his shoulder blades down to the small of his back, where yellow bruising spreads.
I feel sick. Like I’m going to throw up. This has to have taken years and years. This was happening to him and I didn’t know. No matter if he was cold to me after the kiss, he was my best friend, and I just didn’t know.
The tears run down my cheeks, cooling my skin. By the time he turns around, I’m ready to throw myself into his arms and hug him like I’ve never hugged anyone before.
But he flinches when he sees my face and steps back. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have shown you. I’m sorry, Auds.”
He grabs his jacket from the chair and strides across the room before I manage to formulate a response.
It isn’t until I hear the door slam that I realize he’s left once more.
Chapter Ten
Asher
Standing at the entrance of her building, I pull on my shirt and jacket, then hurry out to the street. The cold bites every inch of exposed skin, but can’t compete with the ice filling my chest.
God, I was stupid, showing her my scars. Her scars may be beautiful to me, but that doesn’t mean mine would be to her. Just because she listened to me when we were kids doesn’t mean she feels the same way I do. I’m not a kid anymore, and neither is Audrey.
