BROKEN HOPE (Broken Redemption Book 2)

Chapter 15

Emilia

I can tell he's still angry by the way he opens the door. And though I feel his piercing gaze like a brand over my skin, I can't take my eyes off the contours of the body that stands before me. His torso is completely bare and, like a moth drawn to a flame, I'm captivated. From the round curves of his strong shoulders to his well-defined muscular chest, to those chiseled abs and the trail of light brown hair that disappears beneath the waist of his dark grey sleep pants. I'm mesmerized.

That is until the warm flush that permeates my body snaps me out of my lust-filled haze. But as I try to look away, the evidence of his past grabs my attention and crashes into me with the force of a runaway train.

The extent of the damage is so extreme that in sections, it's hard to tell where one injury ends and another begins. There are multitudes of gashes lining his skin, some stitched cleanly in perfect lines, while others are jagged and skewed in ways that invoke pain just at the sight. And as if that weren't bad enough, the pink puckered evidence of burnt flesh is scattered down the left side of his torso in a pattern that makes my stomach twist like I'm going to be sick.

When my tear-filled eyes come to his, what stares back at me is pure, unadulterated despair. Pain and shame pour out of him in waves that make it hard for us to breathe, but when I go to reach for him, he pulls back. Spinning toward the bed, he grabs a black t-shirt, but just as quickly I'm standing in front of him. My hands clinging to his as I prevent him from hiding the scars that are as much a part of him as he is a part of me.

"Please don't," I beg.

While his fear never wanes, he releases the shirt, dropping it to the floor by our feet. Unsure, I search his eyes and when he doesn't pull away, I lift a hand and ever so slowly draw it closer to his chest. Though he flinches at my touch like it still burns, he allows it, and with my heart stuck in my throat, I skim my fingertips over his warm flesh until my hand is resting over the scarred gashes that line the skin over his heart.

In that instant, time stops. The tether that binds us flares to life and I attempt to absorb every bit of his fear. His pain. The anguish he endured. Soaking in as much of the devastation as I can in hopes it helps to ease some of his burden.

When I notice the harried way his chest rises and falls, it draws my attention back to him. His eyes are sealed shut. He's gone pale and his features are twisted into an agonized look that makes my breath catch in my throat.

Determined to pull him out of the nightmare his mind has trapped him in, I cup the sides of his face. This moment is important. I don't know how I know it, but I can tell he needs this if for nothing else, to help build upon the trust we're both so desperate to repair. It's why I wait him out. And when those wistful pools of sea green stare back at me, I smile through a sob.

He survived. For me.

He endured and lived through the terror. For me.

Each of these scars is a symbol of his love and devotion to me and the family he created in his mind. We were his comfort amidst the terror, and that he survived it all so he could come home to the life he imagined for us heals a part of me I thought would forever be broken.

Without thinking, I step closer, rising to my toes so I can brush my lips against his. It's a slow, tender touch. One I hope communicates how grateful I am for the sacrifices he made to be here. Though he doesn't kiss me back, his hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer. The feel of our bodies pressed against one another awakens that spark of desire that's only ever existed for him. When his fingers graze the skin at the hem of my shirt, I shiver in anticipation as goosebumps break out over my flesh.