Page 83 of Beneath Scarred Vows

The question hangs in the air between us. Do I trust this dangerous, powerful man, who's shown me more tenderness than I thought possible? Who seems to see me even better than I see myself?

"Yes, of course," I say, surprising myself with how true it feels.

He smiles. "Then turn to face the mirrors."

I do as he asks, my legs feeling heavy beneath me. "Ares?—"

"Trust me," he says to me gently.

I turn slowly until I'm facing the wall of mirrors. My reflection stares back at me—a woman in a red dress, pale with anxiety, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. I focus on my left side, the side that's whole, undamaged.

Ares stands behind me, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. "What do you see?" he asks.

"My reflection," I say.

He makes a sound of disagreement. "No. You're not looking. You're hiding." His fingers move to the zipper at the back of my dress.

I nod, unable to speak. The zipper comes down slowly, exposing my spine inch by inch. The cool air of the room kisses my skin, raising goosebumps. He pushes the dress off my shoulders, and it falls in a pool of red at my feet.

I stand before the mirrors in nothing but my heels, completely naked. My right side is fully exposed—the patchwork of scars that start at my hip and crawl up my side, over my ribs. The skin is mottled, pink and white in some places, red and angry in others. Years of healing, years of hiding.

Instinctively, I angle away, trying to hide the worst of it.

"No," Ares says firmly. His hands guide me back, forcing me to confront my reflection. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts.

"Say something nice about what you see," he commands.

I stare at my reflection, searching desperately for something, anything.

"My hair looks good?" It comes out as a question.

Ares laughs behind me. "Yes it does, but try again. Something about your body."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to look at my naked form in the mirror.

"Umm, I have nice legs," I say finally.

"You do," he agrees, his hands skimming down my sides to rest on my hips. "Very sexy legs. What else?"

"My, my breasts are okay."

"They're perfect actually," he corrects and cups them gently. "And they fill my hands perfectly."

I can feel my nipples hardening under his touch, and I blush, watching it happen in the mirror. It's strange, seeing what he sees, witnessing my body's reaction to him.

"What about here?" he asks, his right hand sliding over to my scarred side.

I flinch, but he doesn't let me pull away.

"What about this part of you?" he pushes.

I shake my head. "There's nothing good to say about that."

"There's everything good to say about it." His fingers trace the largest scar, a jagged line that runs from just under my breast to my hip. "This tells me you survived. This tells me you're stronger than fire, stronger than death."

A sob escapes me before I can stop it. "It's ugly."

"It's beautiful," he counters. "It's part of you, and you're beautiful. Every inch."