Page 34 of Inked Desires

As much as I hate infidelity, I’dneverhit him for that. I might beat the guy to a pulp, sure, but never him.

He pulls away and stands.“Stop talking about things you don’t understand.”

He picks up my sweatpants, pulls them on, hiding his bare legs from me.

“Then explain it to me,” I insist.

I want to know what caused that darkness in his eyes. I don’t want to be the reason he flinches.

“What do you want to hear?” he yells.“I didn’t sleep with anyone else. Jace made sure of that. No one was allowed to touch me—hell, evenlookat me! If I so much as glanced the wrong way, I paid for it. Sometimes he’d throw me against the furniture for hours before he’d fuck me.”

My jealousy turns to pure rage. I want to rip out that bastard’s eyes for every damn thing he did to Andrew.

I approach slowly, trying not to frighten him further. He notices, and steps back again. Andrew looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say softly.

He avoids my gaze, but there’s nowhere left to retreat. The wall’s right behind him.

“Did he rape you?” I ask, needing to know everything.

His eyes fix on mine, cold and sharp. The panic is gone. He straightens his back, standing tall, and the fear fades entirely.

“If you press the elevator button long enough, eventually the doors open. So no, I wouldn’t call it rape…”

“Yes, Andrew. Itwas. Just because you felt something at some point doesn’t erase the horror of it. I know you’re not ready to see it that way, but one day you’ll understand you didnothingwrong. Itwasrape. Plain and simple.”

Andrew says nothing and slips past me, leaving the room.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

He glances back briefly but doesn’t stop.“Taking a shower,” he replies before vanishing, leaving me alone with my hatred for his husband.

He’s finally talking to me. Not everything—and I hate what I’ve heard—but he’s opening up. So Jace wasn’t just a brute. He was a rapist too. Rage scorches my throat. My hands ball into fists so tight my knuckles go white. To me, that bastard isn’t a man. Preying on the weak is the act of a coward. If he ever tried to stand against me, he wouldn’t last five minutes. For every scar on Andrew’s body—mental or physical—I’d break a bone before I end him.

I push down the handle. Relief washes over me—he didn’t lock the door.

He notices me but doesn’t meet my eyes. In silence, I scan his body. Every scar tells a story. Andrew is strong. Stronger than I am. After my service, I drowned in alcohol. I hated the world, and it hated me right back. In my bitterness, I pushed William away because I couldn’t speak. Andrew ran too—but he controls himself better than I ever could.

“You saw Kiran shirtless,” I begin.

He glances at me, confused.

“You must’ve noticed the scar on his chest?” I continue.

He shakes his head slightly. Of course. His abs are more distracting. I almost crack a sarcastic comment but hold back. It won’t help.

“It’s a bullet wound. A woman shot him on a mission.”

He watches me, waiting. He doesn’t get where I’m going with this—and truthfully, neither do I. I’m rambling to lighten the air.

“What I’m trying to say is... a young, skinny woman brought a trained soldier to his knees. And so can you. I’m going to teach you how to shoot.”

I leave out the part where I shot that woman between the eyes afterward—because she was aiming at my head. No need to scare him more.

Andrew freezes. His hands stay tangled in his hair as he rinses the shampoo.

“You’d really do that?”