𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

"𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 this?"

Beau is playing with my hand, lifting my digits in the air, and peeling apart every one of them as he examines me, as he studies me when I ask him the question that's been in the forefront of my brain since the moment I walked into his office and found him shirtless.

He doesn't look away from my fingers, doesn't bother looking at me as his eyebrows slightly nod together—an act that shows me he's listening to me, even if he's too perplexed to acknowledge me with his visional connection.

So I follow suit, and, with my face tucked against my free hand, resting and positioned on my crooked elbow, my legs intertwined with Beau's as we cuddle on the bed, my pajamas still forgotten on the floor, I watch the way Beau watches me. His fingers are slight and placid with me as he turns my hand around to the back, as he brings my flesh to his lips, and leaves a small kiss.

He's being so gentle with me, and I don't want it to end, but I'm curious.

"Beau?" I say his name.

Almost as if he were in a trance, Beau hears the sound of his name on my tongue and promptly turns toward me. He stops moving our conjoined fingers, but he doesn't let go of me entirely, gazing upon me with an infliction that makes me want to suck all the air in the room, bottle it up, and seal it away if only so that we remain so passively still together.

"What were you saying, dove?" Beau asks, his voice so lax, so low.

"I asked you how you got this scar," I say.

Beau's eyes harden for a flicker of a moment, but when I move my hand from his, touch him at the peak of his collarbones, and drag my fingertips down the rivet of the thick, red mark that laces him from it to just past his last rib, it disappears. He stares at me while I stare at it—while I examine how someone could have maimed him in this way—how he could've survived it.

The room is quiet for a second, but eventually, Beau sits up and puts his back to me. I don't mean to, but I gasp a little bit at the sight of a mirror image trouncing his back.

"Right down my sternum, I was caught between a mafia turf war," he says, his voice barely a whisper, "It was supposed to be the best night of my life, and it was, until then," Beau shakes his head and lays back down, grabbing my hand again, "It happened a long time ago."

"Was it a sword?" I query.

Beau smiles, "Just a blade, dove."

I can tell by the way that his mouth upturns, but his eyes swim like shallow rivers, that Beau does not want to talk about this, and only is because I brought it up. I want to probe him more, I want to unravel the secrets of his mind and body, but I also want to enjoy this rare, peaceful moment with him without bringing up cause for concern. 

My eyes move to the second question sitting on his chest.

I loop my finger through the thick, silver band wrapped around a chain, hanging from Beau's neck. I almost regret it when he tenses underneath me, but when that's all that happens, I don't stray from inquiring him—I don't stray from the chance at a change in topic.