Papillon

Chapter 16: Scars

Bella

I was helpless against his touch. Not like I was resisting anyway but the second he pushed the weight of his body on top of mine, I closed my eyes and let him take control. Part of me wanted to demand things but another part told me to shut up and be pliant.

When he pressed his face into my neck and groaned, my insides curdled on instinct. His hands ran down my chest and lifted me up from behind, pulling my tank top off in one quick motion. As I lay below him, his legs straddled me, and he looked down with pure heat in his eyes. Putting two fingers in my mouth, he ordered me around. "Suck."

I complied, the rag doll that I was in his hands and took his fingers in, laving them with my tongue before swirling my tongue around the top. He groaned and pulled my lips down, trailing them down my neck, in between my breasts, and all the way down to my stomach.

"C'est à moi," he growled, and in one move, pulled my shorts down my legs. He leaned back and stared at me, naked except for lingerie, spread out on the bed for him to do whatever he wanted. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his gaze leaving trails of fire in its wake.

Boys had touched me before, but no one even came close to making me feel the way Francis Duval did just by looking at me.

"Take off your shirt," I said softly.

"No." The word was so hard that my stomach sank. I looked away, suddenly feeling more exposed than before. Here I was, completely naked except for my lingerie set and he was fully clothed. "Bella..."

I held back tears. "You've seen all of me. Everything. It isn't fair."

"This wasn't ever about fairness," he snapped harshly.

I pressed my thighs together and watched his jaw tick in frustration. A moment passed in which his eyes got darker before he grabbed my hips, flipping me on top. Pressing my hands on his chest for balance, I looked at him.

"I don't want your fucking pity," he ordered. "Okay?"

My brows furrowed in confusion, but I nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about, but the intent was clear when he put both hands behind his head and stared at me.

He was letting me undress him.

Hands trembling, I unbuttoned the first one and sucked in a breath, expecting him to stop me. Instead, his gaze darkened even more as his eyes didn't move from mine. I returned it as I made my way down his shirt, not looking at his chest until I was all the way down. My breath hitched and tears found their way into my eyes.

His entire chest was covered in bruises, scars, and burns–ingrained in his skin with deep memory. Letting my fingers trace each one, I felt his abs tense at my touch when I trailed them down his chest, studying every single mark on his body.

It was a while before I could find the courage to speak. "How'd you get this one?" My fingers traced a scar about an inch long. I knew his eyes hadn't left my face because I could feel them burning on my cheek, but I couldn't look at him or else I knew I'd start crying.

"Your father?" I asked.

His silence was an immediate answer. I traced my fingers across each scar and asked how he got them, all of which he didn't answer. By the time I got through each one on his torso, tears were streaming down my face. My skin burned. My heart was filled with hatred. Leaning down, I kissed each scar gently and he watched the salty tears soak every inch of his chest.

He never complained. He never said a word. He never even hinted at anything wrong in his life. How? When so much pain had been inflicted on a boy who didn't deserve it–how did he take it so quietly?