Page 4

Looks like I’m getting another secret today. I don’t want this one. No wonder he’s trying to hide himself.

There are several scars along the left side of his torso in a haphazard crescent moon pattern. They start just above his pubic hair and pepper over him to his breastbone. The sight of them blows my mind. Whoever did this wanted him dead. That’s deep scarring, old, and there have to be over twenty of them. Someone looked at this beautiful man and decided he needed to leave in the most permanent way imaginable.

My brain jolts away from this trauma and moves to Asher’s. All I can see is the cigarette burns on Asher’s back while I cover them with the biggest fuck you meaning flowers I could find.

This man wants his trauma gone. Covered up.

I want that for him, too.

Someone put this hate all over his skin, and I’ll be damned if I leave it there. Seeing the scars has activated my usual secret-keeping mentality. Damon isn’t going to hear anything about this tomorrow.

It’s none of my business. I’m not asking, either. Despite his ease in undressing, this is something personal he’s showing me. I can tell by the way he’s fallen still, and his expression has shut down even harder. He’s waiting for questions and judgment.

It’s not coming. Not from me. Never.

If someone walked up to Asher, saw his scars, and started demanding to know what happened to him, I’d punch them in the face for the audacity.

You don’t ask a person minding their own business personal questions like that. You let them live. You don’t point out a trauma and wave it in their face because you’re curious.

“A cover or something else?” I double-check, just in case. Maybe I’m overlapping his life with Asher’s. Either way, I’m ticked off and trying not to let it show.

“Cover,” he replies, his voice tight now instead of calm.

“One piece or several?” I tilt my head to see his side. There’s nothing there, leaving the front as my only canvas. If I keep this as a business transaction, we’ll both make it through this without giving him more mental scars to agonize over.

His eyes narrow as he watches me. “One.”

“Do you have any ideas for color or a flower you like? I have a few in mind, but you might not like them.” I frown as I take it in, stepping closer to see if they’re rough or surgically smooth without touching him.

He hesitates and says, “No.”

My mind is already working his skin into art. It needs to be something that says strength. Endurance.

“You mind brighter colors?”

I want some subtle and a few vibrant as all get out. Whoever gets to see this needs to know there’s iron under all this quiet. You don’t live through something like this by being weak. People need to know that.

“No,” his voice drops lower.

I’m not paying attention to it now. My mind is filled with reds. Maybe violent purple. Something that says mess around and find out.

“This is going to hurt,cher,” I mutter with a frown of concern. “Do you have any other tattoos? Piercings? A little experience with all this?”

“No.”

It seems like his favorite word. I’m not going to ask him about his pain tolerance flat-out. After seeing all this, that would be an insult.

He’s watching me look at the scars from different angles, trying to picture what belongs there instead of this mental anguish. I have a solid picture in my head, and I can’t wait to sketch it out on him.

I want it to look natural. Something that follows the scars loosely, so they aren’t the centerpiece. Maybe a tangled mess of flowers. Or a climbing vine.

“We can take our time with it then. Pace it out to keep-”

“No. I want it done in a single session.”

My eyes bounce to his with a raised brow. “You gonna let me finish a sentence? For a second there, I thought you had manners.”

A tiny splash of color hits his cheekbones, which amuses me. He’s cute, but he’s in my playground now, and he needs a little reminder.