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“Not pretty, is it?” he asks roughly, seeing my troubled gaze.
“No, it’s not,” I reply truthfully. “And I don’t mean the scar itself. I couldn’t care less about physical imperfections. It’s what it represents. What you’ve suffered. The ugliness of war.”
Drayton blows out a heavy breath, his eyes shadowed with terrible memories. “People told me I was the lucky one because I survived. But reliving their deaths on a daily basis isn’t lucky. It’s fucking torture.”
I stand and go to him, forgetting to be self-conscious in just my bra and panties. The need to hold him is far greater than any embarrassment I might feel at my near nakedness.
I reach up to cup his cheek, smoothing my thumb across his beard as I look into ocean-blue eyes that have become so familiar in such a short space of time. His arms come around my waist, pulling me against him, and we just hold each other. It’s the most poignant moment of my life, this connection with this amazing man I didn’t even know existed twenty-four hours ago. I’ve never been a big believer in fate, that life is predestined, but now it doesn’t seem so ridiculous.
But my stomach doesn’t appreciate the poignancy of the moment and growls loudly.
Drayton chuckles. “Come on, sweet thing. You need to eat.”
