Page 43 of Beneath Scarred Vows

Ares goes completely still, his eyes widening slightly as he processes my words. "You're a virgin?"

I nod, unable to meet his gaze. "My uncle kept me hidden away after the fire. Said I needed to be protected. Which just meant isolated."

Ares lifts my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. "Katerina," he says, his voice dropping to a gentle tone I've never heard from him before. "That changes nothing for me. Except—" his thumb traces my lower lip "—I'll be gentle with you. When you're ready."

"I don't need gentle," I say automatically, defensively.

He smiles. "Yes, you do. Just this once."

His mouth claims mine again, and my body surrenders to it. His kiss deepens, and I match him, craving all this just as much as him. His hand slides up my side, and I sigh into his mouth, my body awakening under his touch.

Then his fingers creep toward my right side, and I jerk away, pushing against his chest.

"Don't," I say sharply out of habit.

Ares steps back, his brow furrowed. "Your right side," he says, studying me with those piercing eyes. "Why do you flinch? Why do you never let me touch it?"

I turn away, smoothing down my dress with trembling hands. "It's nothing."

"Really, it's not nothing?" he asks and moves toward me again but doesn't touch me. "Every time I touch you there, you pull away. You sleep on your left side. You shield that part of your body like it's an open wound."

"Can we just—" I gesture vaguely, desperate to return to the heat of moments ago rather than this conversation. "Can we just forget it?"

"No." His voice is firm but not unkind. "We can't."

I step toward the closet, but Ares is faster. He places himself between me and my escape, and suddenly his hands are on me, pinning me gently in place.

"I'm your husband," he says, his voice low. "Tell me."

"Let me go," I say, but there's no real fight in my voice.

"Tell me," he repeats, his grip loosening but not releasing. "What are you hiding from me?"

I stare up at him, at the man who tracked down my family's killer for me, who puts wool blankets in the cars because he noticed I get cold, who watches me sleep because he can't rest until he knows everyone he cares for is safe.

"I'm scared," I admit finally, my voice sounding a little weak.

His expression softens. "Don't be. Never with me."

I shake my head. "You say that now. But you'll never look at me like you are right now again."

"That's crazy," he says firmly. "Nothing could change how I see you."

"You don't understand." I twist free and step to my left. "You'll either look away or look with pity. I don't want either from you."

He stands perfectly still, watching me with those dark eyes. "Try me."

I hold his gaze for a long moment, deciding his sincerity. Then I sigh, my shoulders slumping in defeat. I couldn't hide this forever.

With shaking hands, I reach for the side zipper of my dress and pull it down. The fabric loosens around me, and I turn slightly, lifting the right side.

Then he sees it—the scar that stretches across my right side, from just below my waist, up along my ribs, stopping midway. It's jagged, burned, a reminder of the fire that nearly took my life. The skin is rough and discolored, completely different from the smooth olive skin of the rest of my body.

I keep my face stone-like, unreadable, as I wait for his reaction. For the pity to flood his eyes, or worse, the disgust.

But Ares doesn't flinch. He doesn't look away. His eyes move over the scar with the same intensity he gives everything. Then, slowly, he steps forward.

"May I?" he asks, his hand hovering near but not touching.