Page 98 of Brutal Vows

“Oh, lass, what you do to me.”

I kiss her again, deeply but not hard, letting her relax into it. Bending her knee, she slides her leg up against mine and flexes her hips. I don’t think she has any idea how responsive she is, because she’d probably force herself to stop if she did.

“I need you out of this dress,” I whisper, forcibly rolling her onto her stomach.

“Wait.”

I mutter, “Not this again,” and tug on the zipper. The fabric parts under my hands. Reyna stiffens at the same time, saying in a higher voice, “Quinn, please, wait—”

But it’s too late.

I’ve already seen it.

The tattoo is large and vivid, snaking all the way down her spine from her nape to the small of her back. It’s a twisting, thorny vine of red roses and delicate black leaves, branching out from the center in all directions.

It’s staggeringly breathtaking, not only for the intricacy and artistry of the ink, but also for the stalk from which each flower blooms.

A scar.

Her entire back is covered in raised white scars, each a finger’s width and about as long.

Horrified, I whisper, “Reyna.”

Her voice low but steady, she says, “He liked to use a whip.”

I can’t catch my breath. I’m so stunned and sick at the realizationof what she must have gone through, what she suffered at his hands, that I can barely see straight.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking bloodyChrist!”

“That’s not helping me feel any better.”

I roll her over and pull her up, sitting back on my heels on the bed so we’re facing each other. Taking her face in my shaking hands, I say, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

She looks at me askance. “Thank you for that, but it’s not like you could’ve done anything. I didn’t know you then.”

“No. Fuck.” I groan, kissing her. “I’m sorry for every stupid, arrogant thing I’ve said and done since we met. For every time I was rude. For how I’ve acted. For—fuck!—I don’t even know what! For being aman! But most of all for forcing you to marry me. Jesus Christ. What have I done. What have I fucking done?”

I leap from the bed, holding my head in my hands.

She sits on the bed and silently watches me pace back and forth for a moment. Then she stands, pulls the veil out of her hair, tosses it to the floor, and steps out of the dress. It slithers down her legs and pools at her feet, sighing softly as it settles against the carpet.

She stands in front of me naked except for a simple pair of white cotton panties.

And more fucking scars.

On her stomach. Across her ribs. Under both breasts. Her arms and legs are smooth and so are her chest and neck, but the rest of her body is marked with the ghosts of her past, a hundred mementos of suffering.

It’s like looking at tombstones in a graveyard.

I’ve never cried in my adult life, but I think I’m about to break that record.

Watching my face with shining eyes, she says softly, “Don’t you dare look at me with pity. I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor. I’m alive. There are millions of other women just like me who weren’t so lucky.”

I exhale a disbelieving breath. “Lucky.”

“Yes,” she says vehemently. “And grateful. And determined I’ll never waste another second of this life I won. So get your Irish ass over here and fuck me, or I’ll divorce you so fast, it’ll make your head spin.”

Later on, I’ll look back and realize this is the exact moment I fell in love with her.