Page 35 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

S he woke slowly, disoriented, sunlight slanting in from between the whisper-thin curtains. The room smelled like clean cotton and warmth. It was the first uninterrupted sleep she had in weeks.

The space next to her was empty. Did she dream that he had come to her in her sleep?

But the indentation was there, the dip of a head on the pillow, the indent of a body on the sheets that had once wrapped around hers in sleep. She hesitated, then reached for his pillow and pulled it to her, burying her face into the warmth he left behind.

How many nights had she dreamed of him?

This man, who had almost been the end of her. The man who had ignited everything—memories she didn’t want to remember, rage she wanted to suppress, need she didn’t want to acknowledge, tenderness she didn’t know she had in her.

But a little voice whispered again, like it had many times when she found her temper going out of control.

He didn’t know.

How could he have known?

She sighed. Her rational mind understood; he’d been eleven, a child. He had escaped, and he’d tried to find her again, searching her by the name she’d given him, Dorothy. She had tried to reach out to him once, only once, but after how that had ended, she’d recoiled into her shell.

Withdrawn. Rebuilt. Reinvented.

She had become this steely persona—a tough cop with a cold heart. A woman who couldn’t be touched, a woman who couldn’t be broken.

Even though she never found the monster who’d raped her again and again, she had survived. And now he was back, digging up emotions which she had buried deep.

She fidgeted with the edge of the pillowcase as she stared into nothing. But her mouth had softened, drooping slightly in that way that meant she wasn’t here anymore.

Thane watched her from the doorway.

He knew that look.

He knew that place too well.

“Breakfast,” he said, voice casual, interrupting her downward spiral.

“We need to talk”, she said. The vulnerable Faolan was gone, the mask firmly in place.

He leaned on the doorframe. “After coffee.”

She blinked slowly, turning her head. “I don’t think you should sleep here.”

“That’s not what it looked like when you climbed on me and used me like a mattress.”

Unexpected heat crept into her cheeks.

“I don’t mind,” he said, eyes dark with something that hovered between teasing and truth. “But let’s be clear; you didn’t just use me as a mattress. You pinned me down so I wouldn’t escape. You are a strong lady, and I was a little terrified.”

There was a faint smirk tipping the corner of his sensual mouth.

She wanted to slap him.

“Eat up,” he said “You have to keep your strength up. Who knows, I may try to escape tonight.”

She looked down at the perfectly done omelette, the toast slathered with butter.

Hunger won and she dug in.

He was attentive without being fussy, and that somehow made it worse.

“Physio’s coming at ten,” he said as he handed her a coffee mug. His hands cradled hers for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go.

She groaned. “Ugh. Physio.”

“I’ll help you get ready.”

“No thanks.”

“Okay,” he said, then immediately proceeded to help her anyway.

And she didn’t object.

By the time Frida arrived—a cheerful, sharp-witted woman who pretended not to notice the tension in the room—she was more annoyed by her own body than the routine.

Frida cracked jokes as she manipulated stiff joints and worked with her shoulder mobility.

“Breathe in. Deep,” she said, her accent lilting with that unmistakable warmth from Puerto Rico. “Come on, hermosa, I want to hear those lungs work.”

She pressed lightly over the healing ribs, listening for movement and reaction. “You’re stiff and that’s not unexpected. Your chest still sounds like a drowned cello.”

Faolan gave her a dry look. “Good to know.”

Frida smirked. “Hey, drowned cellos can still make music. You’ll be fine.”

She moved on to the mobility work next, gently rotating her patient’s shoulder. “You’ll be glad to know the slab comes off next week, right?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Mm-hmm. Then it’s goodbye to the straight-jacket life and back to wearing tops that make you look like Lara Croft.”

As Frida guided her through gentle stretches, her eyes flicked briefly on the doorway, where Thane stood leaning against the frame, supposedly absorbed in whatever was on his phone.

“So,” Frida said slyly, lowering her voice a fraction. “The brief said female physio only, strictly enforced.”

Faolan frowned. “Really?”

Frida nodded, voice casual but teasing. “Didn’t take long to figure out why.

Your…‘friend’ over there?” Her chin tilted toward Thane.

“Sounded like he’d climb through the phone line and vet me himself.

Very protective, that one. I suspect he has a file on me, right down to what brand of toothpaste I use. ”

She chuckled, then added with a wink. “If my girlfriend looked like you, I’d probably put a ban on male physios, too. Not that I’d mind if my boyfriend was that hot.”

That earned a huff of amusement from her patient and a suspiciously loud throat clearing from the doorway.

“And,” Frida continued, with theatrical loudness, stirring the pot, “Frank sends his regards. He said you were one of his favourites.”

There was a twitch at the corner of Thane’s mouth.

Frida, ever the provocateur, added with a smirk, “Told me you had the cutest pain face, like a kicked kitten.”

Faolan groaned, covering her eyes with her free hand. “I’m going to kill him.”

Thane didn’t say anything, but waves of dissatisfaction seemed to seep out of him.

The little green devil was making an appearance.

“Easy, tiger,” Frida murmured under her breath, smiling. “Looks like someone’s jealous.”

“I am not,” he said flatly from across the room, not bothering to look up.

Frida grinned wide, pulling her patient gently to her feet. “He’s totally jealous. I can taste it.”

“Puerto Rican voodoo?” Faolan asked, amused.

“Instinct,” Frida said. “Also…I know men like him. Control-freaks with intense eyes and stupidly good hair.”

Faolan shook her head, biting back a smile.

When the session ended, and Frida left with a wave and a cheeky, “Try not to wrestle your protector tonight; your ribs aren’t ready,” Thane was still by the door, watching.

After Frida left, she caught her breath and stretched her fingers out, flexing them slowly. Her muscles still ached.

“Lunch?” he asked from the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

There was a beat of awareness between them. He looked like he wanted to say more, but it stayed tucked behind his quiet eyes.

By nightfall, her body had had enough. Everything ached. Her ribs felt splintered. Even the skin beneath the brace stung from the weight of the day. She wanted to stop using the painkillers today, but it was not to be.

“I don’t think I can take a bath tonight,” she mumbled as she sank into the bed.

He nodded wordlessly, then proceeded to strip her with surgical efficiency.

“Thane, I can—”

“No, you can’t,” he said quietly, though not unkindly, already wetting a cloth with warm water and lavender soap. “Just let me.”

She gritted her teeth but said nothing more.

His movements were gentle and impersonal.

The moment he reached her breasts, her spine arched ever so slightly, a quiet, wicked part of her delighting in the way his breath caught.

She glanced down in time to see him squeeze the washcloth hard, his knuckles going white, his jaw clenched, eyes tightly shut as if struggling not to drown in the sight of her. Walking around semi-aroused seemed to have become a way of life for him now.

It lasted only a heartbeat before he seemed to snap back, washing the rest of her quickly while avoiding her gaze, avoiding everything.

She almost smirked when he destroyed yet another T-shirt to get it over her brace.

“You’re ruining your wardrobe,” she muttered as he pulled the soft cotton down her arms.

He didn’t answer at first. He just adjusted the fabric gently, tucked the blanket around her legs, and set a full glass of water on her nightstand Then he sat there for a beat, unmoving.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and raw, like it had clawed its way out of him. “I’d ruin everything I have for you.”

She froze.

He adjusted the pillow under her arm. “Clothes. Plans. Sanity,” he went on, eyes pinned to her mouth but not quite meeting her eyes. “You think it’s just a few T-shirts? You have no idea what you do to me. How much I’m willing to do. How far I would go to keep you here.”

The breath caught in her throat.

“You rule me,” he said, a thread of quiet awe in his voice. He caught hold of her free hand and brought her palm to his lips before sliding it to his cheek.

She didn’t know what to say.

He reached out once more, brushing her hair back from her forehead. His fingers lingered longer than they should have, trembled more than he’d like.

“I’ll be in the office,” he murmured as he stood and walked out, closing the door with a soft click .

But hours later, in the small aching dark, she felt the bed dip.

She felt the warm weight of his body behind hers.

The slow, familiar wrap of his arm around her waist. As if he was afraid she would wake up and send him away.

The faintest exhale against her nape.

He crept back in. And he wouldn’t leave.