Page 38 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

F rida, the physiotherapist, raised an arched brow on one of her home sessions.

“You know,” she said dryly, watching Thane linger by the door, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say your boyfriend wants to get rid of me.”

Faolan, mid-stretch, snorted. “Ignore him. He’s just…intense.”

“He’s glowering at my hands like I’m fondling his woman.”

“Maybe you are. Do you want to leave your husband for me, Frida?” Faolan asked with a teasing smile.

Frida rolled her eyes, laughing. “Well, damn. He’s like a pit bull, that one.”

But Faolan didn’t feel suffocated, not even a tiny little bit.

She had found that she liked it.

Liked how his eyes tracked her like she was the most precious thing in his world. How he always stood between her and any male, how his jaw locked tight if someone dared look at her too long.

She should’ve felt trapped, but it felt like being treasured.

She wasn’t right in the head, but she didn’t care.

There was an invisible thread pulled taut between them. She passed him as he typed something on his laptop and didn’t have to look to know he was watching her.

Always watching her, as if he was waiting for a sigh…for what?

There was something in the way his gaze moved over her. It was a sensual sweep, deliberate and unashamed, like his eyes were hands. She could feel it, the burn of attention that traced her collarbone, her waist, the vulnerable space beneath her ribs.

That fire in his mismatched eyes—hazel and blue, gold and storm—banked low and steady. Hunger, slow and coiled, ebbed and flowed.

Even when his fingers moved over the keys, even when his body was still, she was the focus.

And the worst part?

Her body knew it.

It betrayed her with every slick throb, every involuntary shiver that rippled through her when he held her gaze a beat too long.

When his eyes swept her body with possessiveness, like she was already his.

Or how, when she tried to go back to her flat, he’d avoid the conversation, making excuses of the risks.

She didn’t have privacy.

He insisted on helping her to the bathroom, ”Just in case,” but it was never just anything. Then he proceeded to watch her through the frosted glass.

And sometimes, when the ache in her built to unbearable levels, when she tried to take a moment to relieve the pressure, she couldn’t because he seemed to sense it.

He would reach, press her against the nearest counter, breath ragged as he murmured against her ear, “Just give me a few seconds, please. I just—”

His hands would flatten on either side of her. His hips pressing forward, the firm, hot shape of his arousal carved against her abdomen like a brand.

God, she knew the shape of him now. Not just with memory, but through her skin. Through the imprint left on her body, night after night.

And it was killing her. Not to touch, not to taste, not to feel.

At night, he spooned her. A protective arm thrown around her middle, body curled behind hers like armour. She’d fall asleep to the rhythm of his breath, warm and even against her neck, and wake up to the stiff, unmistakable press of him against her backside, hard and relentless.

She tried to ignore it, tried not to shift against him.

But she always did.

One night, the pressure got the better of her. She moved restlessly against him, the need clawing at her, and without a word, his hand slipped beneath the hem of her sleep shirt.

Two fingers traced over her inner thigh, slow and featherlight, before sliding between her folds with disarming familiarity. He circled her sensitive nub with agonising patience, each swirl tightening her breath, stretching her thin with want.

She gasped, trying to hold back, trying not to give him the satisfaction. But she didn’t stop him.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered before biting down into the sensitive skin of her neck.

Two fingers plunged inside her, curling deep into her wetness, holding steady, just coaxing. As if he were feeling her pulse. As if he wanted to know exactly how fast her body betrayed her.

She clutched his forearm as she came hard and fast, her breath catching on a moan she couldn’t smother.

And then he withdrew.

She blinked, chest heaving, expecting him to finally claim the rest.

But no.

His eyes never left hers in the low light as he brought his fingers to his lips and licked them clean.

And then, the softest command, “Sleep.”

As if he hadn’t just ruined her for the rest of the night.

And maybe he had.

Because now…every glance, every brush of his fingers, every breath she shared with him was laced with tension that grew thicker by the hour.

And neither of them seemed capable of crossing that line. It was like they both were waiting for the other to make the first move of surrender.

She found them stacked neatly on the coffee table.

Every book from her wishlist. How he knew, she didn’t have a clue.

Every dark, twisted, morally grey thing she’d bookmarked in secret and told no one about.

‘The Collector’ by John Fowles.

The butterfly garden. Perfume. Both books she had planned to read. How did he know?

The brand-new release from ‘Darkest Desires’—her favourite author of violent, obsessive, blood-stained romance.

Thane walked in just as she picked it up.

He didn’t say anything, just reached over, took the book from her fingers, and turned it in his hand. One brow arched, just slightly, as he read the title aloud in that slow, deep voice, “Bleed Me Black: A Savage Bond Romance.”

Her face felt like it was on fire.

He was reading the blurb, but she could see his eyebrows rise.

That look he gave her—smug and knowing—was worse. A smirk that curled the corner of his sensual mouth and lit up his mismatched eyes like fire catching on kindling.

“You will need to read this to me. First one for our book club,” he said.

She snatched it out of his hands, her cheeks on fire.

He only smiled and walked away, whistling, leaving her flustered, clutching the book like a shield.

The next day when he took her to the hospital to get her slab off, he didn’t just hover.

He loomed over the poor sweating resident.

Then, he paced like some silent, restless storm system when she lost her temper and exiled him to the waiting room. When nurses looked up, they gave him wide berths and pretended to be busy. No one asked questions.

Her arm was thinner and paler. The bruises were fading, the swelling around her ribs better. The pulmonologist was pleased with her progress.

But she still felt fragile. A little…translucent.

Back in the car, she flexed her fingers, watching the faint ghost of where the cast had sat. “At least it’s still in one piece,” she muttered.

“Barely,” Thane said beside her. He seemed disturbed. He didn’t like to be reminded of how he had almost lost her. His fingers reached up to brush her hair back from her face. The touch was soft. She didn’t pull away.

Later that day, she had her first solo bath.

She’d insisted.

He’d hesitated but reluctantly nodded.

She’d locked the door behind her, shutting out the noise, the attention, the relentless orbit of his concern.

The water was warm and comforting.

She soaked until her skin wrinkled, until the stress of the day at the hospital faded away. But when she finally stood, bare and dripping, she heard the soft creak of the door.

She didn’t need to turn around.

She slowly reached for a towel, heart pounding with something that had nothing to do with fear.

And when she opened the cubicle door…

There he was.

Leaning in the doorway, watching her.

His eyes flicked down, then returned to hers.

And he wrapped her in the towel, then dried her hair with the one in her hands.

“Too soon.” he said.