Page 112 of Merry Fake Bride

“Devon, I can’t fathom the strength it took you to survive this,” he says softly. “And I can’t fathom the strength it’s taking you right now to let me see you. To really see you.”

I turn my head until my cheek rests against my bare shoulder.

My arms wrap around my body, half to keep my dress from falling all the way down and half to comfort myself.

“You don’t think it’s awful?” I whisper.

“These scars?” His fingertips continue to wander, touching parts of myself that I can barely even look at in the mirror. “Nothing about this, or you, is awful to me, Devon. What is awful is that someone dared to treat you like this.”

A lick of anger enters his words and an unexpected curl of warmth radiates through my core.

“Not just the scars. But all of me.”

“All of you?” Kairo’s touch sweeps up to my shoulder and he gently encourages me to turn and face him.

I’m powerless to resist so I turn until we’re face to face, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” I say hoarsely. “And then look at you.”

My attention is fixated on his abdomen where muscles subtly flex and roll as he moves.

He keeps one hand on my shoulder and the other curls under my chin where he applies gentle pressure.

“Look at me, Devon.”

I can’t.

It’s one thing to feel his touch and hear his voice.

It’s quite another to witness the truth in the depths of his eyes. So I resist.

“Please?”

My chest tightens and I close my eyes.

I must resist.

But I can’t.

I have to look.

How can I resist such a gentle request?

I relax and let him tilt my head up, then I open my eyes and stare up into his dark, warm irises.

There’s no judgment.

There’s no disgust.

His brow is furrowed, but the open concern etched across his handsome features doesn’t read like pity.

It’s more like sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Devon, that someone treated you this way. I know there’s nothing I can say that will erase the scars deep down and that only time will truly be able to soothe them, but I swear to you, it will never happen again.”

He speaks like he knows, like a part of him truly understands, and I don’t know if I should be comforted or heartbroken.

“Is it… is it fucked up that I wanted you to see so that you would be scared away?”