Page 29 of His Secret Betrayal (Cedarwood Valley Duology #2)

Alek

H ot water pelts against my tense back, soothing my aching muscles after another grueling work out session.

The bathroom attached to my master bedroom is foggy with steam, the heat making my body temperature rise.

The skin along my fingers is turning wrinkled and pruney, but I find myself reluctant to get out.

Luke has been giving me that hungry, heated expression all day long.

I want to fuck him, I really do. But I’m not sure how much longer I can avoid taking my shirt off, or how many more times I can distract his roving fingers from running over my scars.

Not without raising his suspicion. Even now, as I’m running a trembling finger over the bumpy ridges, my stomach is twisting.

These scars tell a story, and I can’t help but want to distract him from the bleakness of my past a little longer.

My long-sleeve shirts hide my weaknesses, my ugliness, from the world.

Although part of me wants to rip the Band-Aid off and show him, past experiences tell me he may no longer find me attractive.

It’s one thing for a fuck buddy to avert their eyes, their lips turning down. But instinctually, I know Luke holds a different sort of power over me. If he turns away in disgust or pity, it’ll be a metaphorical punch in the gut.

I need to find a way to buy myself more time.

Just as I’m getting ready to step out of the shower, my fingers wrapping around the edges of the curtain, the bathroom door creaks open. I freeze at the shuffle of footsteps, a pleased little hum spilling from Luke’s throat as he approaches.

“Great timing,” he purrs. “Let me wash you.”

Fuck.

My heart begins to jackhammer in my throat, and I instinctively plaster my scarred back against the wet shower stall, my shoulders hiking up. “Uh, actually, I’m almost done.”

“Then maybe you can wash me,” Luke suggests coyly.

Despite my building panic, a wave of heat spreads through my body. God, if I were worthy of him, I could have his naked, soapy body under the water with me. The thought makes me imagine an alternative future, where Luke’s slick, sudsy hands glide along every inch of my unblemished skin.

The quiet thud of shoes tumbling to the floor drag me back into reality. Everything around me begins to spin, my brain bleating at me because this isn’t how I wanted him to find out. My own heartbeat is whooshing in my ears.

Thump, thump, thump.

“Get out,” I bark.

The outline of Luke’s shadow pauses on the other side of the shower curtain, and I swear I hear him suck in a breath.

“Oh. Are you sure you don’t want—”

“I just said I don’t want you,” I snap, the words rolling off my tongue.

He makes a quiet, wounded sound that spears through my heart. If I thought the idea of him seeing my scars was going to send me into a panic, it’s nothing compared to the gut-wrenching guilt that washes over me. He clears his throat, trying to cover up the sound, but it’s too late.

“Oh, okay,” he says quietly.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that,” I quickly amend, my eyes squeezing shut.

“It’s okay, no worries.” He laughs quietly, a brittle, broken sound that isn’t humorous at all. “I changed my mind. I think I’m going to go out for a bit actually.”

“No, wait.” By the time my trembling fingers yank the shower curtain aside, Luke’s hunched shoulders are already retreating through the doorway.

A different kind of panic seeps into my pores now, my stomach rolling as I scramble for a towel and wrap it around my waist. I call his name, my feet slipping on the tiled floor.

Although I hadn’t been able to make out the entire phone conversation with his mother yesterday, the word worthless had been rather hard to miss.

And I just told the man I didn’t want him.

The same man whose mother has made it pretty clear she doesn’t give two shits about him. The same man who publicly proposed to his girlfriend, only to be turned down.

Even on a good day, it’s hard for him to accept that someone might want him around.

I told him he was safe here.

What have I done?

“Luke!” I rush out of the bathroom, through the bedroom door, and down the hallway. As I go, I leave a wake of water droplets behind me. “Wait! Please, I didn’t mean… Just wait!”

“I get it, Alek. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

But he’s not looking at me. Our relationship is new and fragile at best, and I’ve hurt his feelings so irreparably that he can’t even bring himself to face me.

If he would just glance my way, he would get it. Suddenly, I’m desperate for it, and the irony of that doesn’t escape me. But I would rather him discover what I’ve been hiding than for him to think for even one second that my hurtful words could ever be true.

“Look at me,” I croak, ignoring the way my heart climbs into my throat.

He shakes his head, his hand wrapping around the door handle. “I’m just going to—”

“Look at me so you can see how fucked up I am!” I don’t mean to yell, but I do. My voice cracks a little, the swirling panic inside me making it go all high-pitched and breathy.

“What?” Luke’s head snaps around, his eyebrows furrowed.

This time, I’m the one making a wounded noise as I spin around, exposing my back to another human being for the first time in…

years. My fingers curl over the soft plaster of the wall in front of me, my head ha nging as shame heats my body.

Although I can’t see his expression, the air in the room has changed. It feels like it’s all been sucked out.

“I didn’t want you to know how fucked up I am, okay?

It’s no excuse for being an asshole, but I didn’t want you to see how ugly…

” I trail off when my voice begins to tremble, a lump forming in my throat.

Fuck, this is even harder than I thought it would be.

That sticky, vulnerable, weak feeling is beginning to close around me, crawling inside me and making me want to hide.

What are you going to do about it? My father’s voice taunts me, the memory of his bitter laugh sending a bone-chilling sort of cold sweeping over me. You’re too weak to do shit, aren’t you? Pathetic.

Even at forty-three, I still sometimes hear those words.

That’s what he said to me every time his fist connected with some part of my body, every time I pleaded with him to stop.

For most of my childhood and young adult life, things happened to me.

And I was too weak, too vulnerable, to stop them. I’ve been chasing control ever since.

I present the image I want everybody to see: a put together, middle-aged man in professionally tailored shirts and trousers.

A tone, athletic body that’s conventionally pleasing to gaze at.

Or so they think. Most people only see the surface-level image I present to the world, not the ugly underneath.

Ugly and weak.

“You’re beautiful,” Luke whispers, his voice choked with emotion I don’t recognize.

“Wh-what?” I straighten, spinning around to give him an incredulous look. I would accuse him of lying but he sounds so…sincere.

Is he blind?

He closes the distance between us, those bright emeralds swimming with something that looks like a combination of awe and pain.

I don’t quite know what to do with that, so I remain frozen.

Luke keeps his movements slow, his hand held out like he’s approaching a trapped animal.

When he stops directly in front of me, his hand hovers over my chest, his eyes seeking permission.

My stomach swoops, and I swallow hard. I give a tiny, very subtle jerk of my chin.

A warm, soft hand rests over my heart as his body heat presses to mine.

The other hand lands on my shoulder, his fingers not hesitating to curl directly over my… scars.

I inhale sharply, my vision blurring.

“That’s why you haven’t taken your clothes off,” he says simply.

I nod.

He gives that pained sort of whine again, but this time it’s for me. My heart begins to beat faster as his forehead rests against mine. Even now, my skin itches and my limbs feel jerky. I can’t help but want to cover myself again, to don my armor. But the way he’s looking at me makes me pause.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers again, his breath fanning over my parted lips. “Your scars are beautiful.”

I shake my head. Now he’s just bullshitting me.

“Don’t you get it?” he asks softly, his eyes never leaving mine.

They stare at me, unblinking. There’s a quiet urgency in his voice, like whatever he’s about to say is important, and he’s trying to make sure I don’t miss even one syllable.

The hand on my chest slides down, gliding down my side before making its way to the bumpy skin of my back.

When his fingertips gently brush the textured skin, I whine.

I fucking whine.

He grazes the webbed mass of scars with such a reverent, gentle touch. Like it’s a privilege. It starts to heal something broken inside me, gluing some of those jagged pieces back together .

“Don’t you know there’s strength in surviving? If that’s not beautiful, I don’t know what is,” he whispers. “Isn’t that what you basically said to me?”

“Luke,” I gasp. My fingers thread into the loose bun at the back of his head, my other hand grasping his hips so tightly that my fingers must be making indents in his skin.

Some desperate, needy part of me wants to crawl inside him.

I want to anchor myself to him and never let go. “I didn’t want you to have to see…”