Page 49 of Cinderella and the Daddy

The energy in the room changes.

I see the second he feels it.

Yeah, yeah, we’re in the garage, and anyone could walk in on us at any second. But he’s like a piece of chocolate that needs to be devoured.

He grabs me, fiercely kissing me.

Who knew a smooth-running engine could be such an aphrodisiac? Or maybe it’s the memories in this garage. It seems like I end up naked in here a lot.

I jerk at the hem of his shirt, lifting it until he takes over and pulls it off.

I pause a moment to really take in the sight of him in the bright lighting. My fingers trace over the L, and then the M. “Leo,” I say.

“Yes. My heart.”

I nod and run my fingers lower. The Russian letters. “What does this say?”

“God forgives. I don’t.”

That seems appropriate.

My fingertips brush across his skin.

The scars map his body like a roadmap of violence. Some are thin and precise, others jagged and brutal. I can see his story written on his skin.

There's one in particular that catches my attention. It’s a thin, vicious line that curves around his ribs. It's old and well-healed, but the way it cuts across his torso suggests it came close to something vital. I trace it with one finger and then bend forward to brush my lips over the white line.

"Who did this?"

He goes perfectly still beneath my touch, every muscle in his body coiling like a spring. For a moment, I think he won't answer and that he'll retreat behind that wall of silence he uses to keep the world at bay.

"A man I didn't kill fast enough."

The honesty in those words is powerful. Not because of what they reveal about his capacity for violence—I've always known what he's capable of—but because they're the first completely truthful thing he's ever said to me. No evasion, no deflection, no careful omission of details. Just raw, unvarnished truth.

"How old were you?" I ask.

"Seventeen."

Shit. I thought I had it bad. Seventeen years old and already fighting for his life. I trace the scar again, imagining him as he must have been then. Younger, less careful, and definitely less experienced in the art of staying alive.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. His childhood, maybe. Or the world that carved him into something so hard there's barely any softness left.

He catches my wrist, stilling my movement. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make me human."

The words are barely audible, but they carry the weight of a confession. Because that's what this is, isn't it? This moment of vulnerability, of letting me see his scars and hear his truth. It's him admitting that, beneath all the violence and control, there's still a man who can be hurt.

“You are human, Luka. You can pretend otherwise, but I see it.”

He shakes his head. “And you? You pretend all the time.”

He’s not wrong. I shrug. “Maybe.”

“How did you end up with them?”