Page 10 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T wenty Years Later

Thane

A bead of sweat traced its way down her spine, catching the low light that filtered through the half-shuttered window.

Her back, littered with small scars, arched slightly as she braced herself against the battered workbench.

His hand traced the knobs of her spine. The room smelled of sawdust, metal, and someone’s forgotten lunch.

“Harder,” she moaned, her nails digging into his hip.

Thane’s hand rested at the small of her back, holding her steady as he watched his cock disappear into her slick pussy.

His breath was harsh against her shoulder as his other hand slid down, anchoring her against him, making her stand on tiptoes to accommodate his height.

Their bodies moved in rhythm—urgent and brutal one second, then slow and lazy the next.

She gasped, fingers tightening on the edge of the bench. “Don’t stop.”

Thane didn’t speak—he rarely did in moments like these.

He increased the tempo as he watched his cock slide in and out of her pussy, her wetness glistening on him.

For a minute he imagined blonde hair and blue eyes instead of brown hair and brown eyes.

He definitely had a type. She drew his attention back as she reached down, and he could feel her working her clit as he sped up.

The climax came like a car wreck as she tightened around him.

There was only relief-no softness, no tenderness. Just a raw release.

He pulled away quickly, breathing hard. Took care of the condom like a man used to compartmentalising everything. This was transactional, no fuss, no emotion.

She turned and sat back on the bench, utterly unbothered by the air drying the sweat on her skin.

Her short, dark brown hair, shaved clean at the sides, flared upward in a styled wave, strands still damp and curling from the heat and sweat.

Sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the colour of dark roast met his without a shred of embarrassment.

For a second, she just breathed, chest rising and falling, her full breasts still on display, utterly comfortable in her own skin. Then, with a sigh, she bent to gather her black, lacy, barely-there bra and slipped it on with practiced ease.

Thane just watched her in silence, noting the angles of her lean body, the quick flick of her fingers as she pulled up her underwear, grimacing at the discomfort of damp fabric.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered in accented English as she tugged on her compression top. “You treat me like a bin sometimes.”

“Fuck,” she said, dragging her trousers back on with a grunt. “That scratched the itch.”

Thane gave a humourless half-smile, already halfway to pulling his shirt on. His eyes didn’t warm. “Glad to be of service,” he muttered.

She grinned, though her face twisted as she adjusted her damp underwear. “After all we have meant to each other, you should at least kiss me before you send me on my way.”

She was sharp, fast, and wickedly attractive, and she knew it.

But Thane felt the old cocktail building again. Lust twisted with something cold and bitter—regret, guilt. The memory of a girl with cornflower eyes and a voice like a whisper through a hole in the wall.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered. “You wanted this, not me. Don’t fall in love with me.”

She smirked. “Too late.”

She was good at that- her lips spilling lies as her ees hinted at something else.

It was always like this-lust tangled with something darker. Disgust. Control.

He watched her, remembering not this moment, but another. Smoke. Flames. The cherry blossoms outside the burning house. A scream that still woke him up at night.

It lived inside him like an insect burrowing under his skin.

That day, twenty years ago, in front of the fire, was when everything changed.

***

It was supposed to be a simple meet for a job.

A warehouse in Salford, tucked behind the canal—half rust, half ghosts. Thane had been the point man for the extraction briefing. An associate of Malcolm’s had fallen foul of the Bratva and wanted out, and their crew had been hired to play go-between.

The metal door creaked open as he was led inside by the muscle.

And she walked out.

Her dark brown hair was shaved close at the sides, longer on top and swept back in a way that made her look sharper than anyone in the room.

She wore a compression shirt, combat boots, no makeup, no softness—except in the way she held the little girl by the hand.

The child was no more than seven. Slender.

Mixed Asian heritage. Eyes too big for her small face.

There was a pink lollypop in her free hand.

They were talking, low and soft. The girl nodded, trusting.

Then Trish looked up.

Their eyes met.

Her eyes widened for just a second as she took in his face. There was a look of interest before Thane forced himself to look away.

Inside, Malcolm was waiting.

He sat behind a battered metal desk littered with takeaway cartons and stacks of files. His head was shaved smooth, tattoos snaking up his neck and vanishing under his collar. He was short but thick-set, nose bent, lips blackened from years of chain-smoking. He smelled like old sweat and ashtray.

“Take a seat, lad,” Malcolm said, his voice thick. “Got a job. Needs tight hands. Not fussy ones.”

The deal was textbook: an associate holed up in Whitefield, looking to ghost out before someone cut his throat.

There had been a fight in a bar with a Bratva brigadier, followed by an incident involving said brigadier’s wife.

He was valuable to the operation, and their team would handle the lift. Simple containment, quick payout.

They hammered out the logistics, payment, and timelines.

Thane kept his tone level and detached.

But in the back of his mind, he saw that little girl.

As he stood to leave, he paused at the door. Made his voice casual. “Who’s the broad?”

Malcolm’s grin turned sly. “Ah, that’s Trish Malcy. She is a looker, ain’t she? Import from Romania. Handles the girls- she’s good with ’em. Soft touch and cold heart. Does liaising, looks after the merchandise.”

Merchandise.

The word hit like a punch to the chest.

It took Thane a few seconds too long to register what he’d actually seen. What he’d let pass unchallenged.

Trish was delivering her.

His hand twitched near the holster beneath his coat.

One second more and he might’ve done it—put a bullet through Malcolm’s skull right there.

But he didn’t.

There was a larger game at stake.

Outside, the car was gone.

The girl, Trish, the vehicle, all vanished like fog on the canal.

Thane climbed into his own and pulled out fast, his knuckles white on the wheel.

His earpiece crackled.

“Did you get all that?” he asked, voice low.

Lirian’s voice came through, calm as ever. “Every word.”