Page 106 of Crushed Vow

I stood there, exposed, my chest bare without the breast pads. The air felt cold against my skin, my scars stark and vulnerable under his scrutiny.

“Go ahead,” I said, my voice trembling with defiance and pain. “Mock me. Say I look like a man, that I’m incomplete, that I’m not woman enough. Go on.”

He closed the distance between us, his presence overwhelming, but instead of cruelty, there was something else in his eyes—something reverent.

With a swift motion, he shoved the table aside, my drawing materials clattering to the floor, and knelt before me.

I froze, my breath catching as he looked up at me, his gaze soft but fierce. “No,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I’ll never mock you again, Charlotte. Instead, I’ll worship your scars—now and forever.”

Before I could process his words, his lips brushed against the jagged scar across my chest, a featherlight kiss that sent a jolt through me.

I almost flinched, but his hands steadied me, warm and grounding on my hips.

He kissed the scar again, slow and deliberate, tracing the uneven lines with a tenderness that made my skin prickle with goosebumps.

No one had touched me there since the surgery, not like this.

His lips were soft, reverent, as if each kiss was a vow, each touch a promise to cherish the parts of me I’d hidden from the world.

He moved along the scar’s path, his breath warm against my skin, his tongue grazing the raised edges with such care that I felt my insecurities unraveling, replaced by a warmth that bloomed deep in my core. “Your scars are mine, Charlotte,” he murmured against my skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. “You don’t need to feel insecure with me. I love you this way—exactly as you are.”

My body trembled, not from fear but from the overwhelming intimacy of his touch, the way he claimed my vulnerabilities as his own.

Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back, lost in the sensation of his lips on my skin, rewriting my pain into something sacred.

I wasn’t prepared for this. For him to kneel like I was some kind of altar and he was bleeding worship from his mouth.

“I’m scared,” I whispered.

He looked up. “You don’t need to be scared of being unlovable around me.”

He reached up slowly, cupped my waist, and rested his cheek against my belly like he was anchoring himself.

My hands hovered over his shoulders before I let myself touch him—gently, hesitantly. His bloodied shirt brushed my thighs.

He rose, his eyes locking with mine, and brought his lips to my mouth.

The kiss was electric, our lips interlocking with a hunger that consumed us both.

I responded, pressing myself closer, my hands finding his shoulders as we devoured each other. His tongue danced with mine—possessive, hungry—as his hands slid to my waist, pulling me flush against him.

The memory of his lips on my scars burned into me, a mantra repeating in my mind: He didn’t mock me. He worshipped me.

I clung to it, praying this wasn’t a dream, that this moment of raw connection was real.

When we parted, breathless, he tugged at my shorts, sliding them down with a gentleness that belied the fire in his eyes. My panties remained, but the pad beneath them made me stiffen.

“I’m still...on my period,” I said quickly, my voice tinged with embarrassment.

He stilled. Then whispered, “And? That doesn’t make you less mine.”

He guided me back against the arm of the couch, his hands steady and sure. With a slow, deliberate motion, he eased my panties down, pad and all, and I squeezed my eyes shut, covering them with my hands.

Mortification burned through me. God, what is he doing?

My thighs instinctively clamped together, but he gently pried them apart, his touch loving but firm.

“Charlotte,” he said, his voice a soothing anchor, “everything you feel insecure about is what I’ll love most about you. Forever.”