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He’s nervous.
Why’s he nervous?
When he lifts up the hem of his shirt, I have my answer.
Long, thin, but deep scars cover his sides, chest, and waist.
“Holy shit, what happened?” I ask, glancing up to meet his gaze.
He lowers his shirt, then a breath trembles from his lips. “My stepmom …” He crosses his arms, tucking his hands underneath his armpits. “She’s a bitch who gets off on using her power on people who are weaker than her. And when I was younger, I was a lot weaker than her … And, well, she used to do things to me a lot … And she would scratch me a lot while she did those things to me.”
He doesn’t specify what thethingsare, but with the way he’s trembling, I get a pretty good idea. And it makes me feel sick. And angry. Not at him, but at his stepmom and at the fact that we have to live in a world where adults can hurt children likes this.
But I’m not really certain what to say to him. I’ve never had anyone confide in me with something so personal. It makes me feel out of my element, enough that I kind of want to leave. But he’s also sitting here, shivering from probably fear of the memories connected to those scars, and the sight of it tugs at a memory of me trembling in a bed while my uncle leaned over me, and carved the worddisappointmentinto my side. It was the first time he did it, and I was terrified. But I learned quickly to numb myself.
“I’m sorry,” I say, deciding to start there. “That that happened to you.”
He promptly shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. And I just wanted to show you so that maybe you’d trust me enough to tell me where you got those scars on your side.” He uncrosses his arms, his eyes searching mine. “They looked like words.”
I smash my lips together. “They’re... They’re just...” I can’t get a good lie to leave my lips.
This isn’t my typical MO, but it’s been a pretty damn traumatic day.
A day I may not have survived if it hadn’t been for Hunter, Zay, and Jax.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he tells me softly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. But if you want to talk about it, I want you to know that you can trust me.”
Trust? When’s the last time I’ve trusted someone? I can’t even remember. But he trusts me enough to show me his scars. And he saved me. Him, Zay, and Jax didn’t have to do what they did. And sadly, a lot of people would have been perfectly content to ignore the situation. Trust me, I’ve been bullied enough to know that people like to look in the other direction when that sort of stuff is going on.
So, with trembling fingers, and before I can back out, I reach for the hem of my own shirt and lift it up, putting all my scars and the fresh wounds on display for him. The blanket is still covering my legs so all I reveal is my side.
As soon as the air hits my skin, a shiver courses through my body.
“Jesus,” he whispers, reaching out and tentatively touching my skin. He starts at the top, tracing each letter marking my flesh with his fingertips, slowly working his way to the bottom. When he reaches the fresh wound, he pauses, his gaze traveling up to mine. “Who did this to you?” he asks, his gaze searing into mine.
“I...”Just say his name, Raven. Just say the truth for once in your damn life. Stop being so scared of him.“It was my uncle.” Holy shit, I can’t believe I said that aloud.
He doesn’t look completely surprised. “Your uncle did this to you—the sheriff did this to you.”
I give a shaky nod. “Unfortunately, yeah.”
He looks down at my scars. “Did he put all of these on you?” He doesn’t remove his hand, keeping it on my scars just underneath my shirt.
I nod again, trying not to shiver as he touches my scars, this time the urge not stemming completely from fear but by the unfamiliarity of his touch. “He started doing it years ago. He does it when I do something that really pisses him off. Although, he’s been doing it more frequently the older I get. But that might be because I get in more trouble now than I used to.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, wavering. “I don’t know. He kinda seems to … get off on it, so maybe he just likes doing it.”
His brows furrow. “What do you mean by that exactly?”
“That he seems to like doing it to me.” I shrug, feeling a bit mortified talking about this. “The last time he did it, I think he went and had sex with my aunt. At least that’s what she implied the next morning... so … yeah …” I shrug again, my cheeks on fire.
He remains silent for a beat before biting out, “He sounds as fucked up in the head as my stepmom.” He looks at me with a crease between his brow. “What about your aunt? Does she know?”
I laugh hollowly. “If she does, she wouldn’t care. Trust me, she hates me.”
“I’m so sorry.” He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “For everything.”
“Why are you apologizing?” I wonder. “None of this is your fault.”
Remorse reflects in his eyes. “Actually, it was. At least the reason why you were thrown off the bridge.”
