Concealed Force

Chapter 8

She had a very vague memory of getting into bed; she'd been wobbly on the walk up to the room, her legs stiff from being bent under her most of the evening. Reid had hung back, leaving a few feet between them, and not offering any help, as if he'd had enough of her skin against his, as if was sick of her.

She must have brushed her teeth, washed her face, but she couldn't be sure; she'd been so tired from the long performance, the tension of being surrounded by people who she couldn't predict, the confusion of having Reid there, so close, but unreachable, unknowable. Again she wasn't sure how long she'd slept, but it was daytime now, and there were noises outside.

Moving her head, she realized Reid was asleep next to her and her eyes became greedy, wanting to get a look at him when he wasn't staring her down.

He'd turned towards her in the night and was lying on his right, on his tattooed side. Long lashes were dark on his cheeks, stubble dark on his chin, and those thick, straight eyebrows were pulled tight as if he disapproved of something in his dreams.

There were more scars that she'd been aware of, but hadn't studied before: through his left eyebrow and under the eye, on his cheekbone, cutting into his top lip. They were colorless, and couldn't mar his beauty, but they were deep, and she wondered again how he'd got them. A fist? A bat? A knife?

She didn't know much about injuries; violence wasn't part of her world. Kyle had been mugged outside a skate park in London once, but the muggers had very straightforwardly asked for his wallet and phone and her ex-boyfriend had just given up the goods without checking what the threat was. 'Who cares?' he'd said afterward. 'I can easily replace everything anyway. I didn't want any hassle.'

Reid's world was all about violence; it was projected on every bright surface and lurked in every shadowed corner. The people here exuded it, bathed in it. Worshipped it. It was astonishing to think Reid could be so gentle and protective when this was the environment he was used to. How was he able to find his own path, his own sense of morality?

She had questions, but she'd more or less stopped asking if he was going to look out for her. He'd proved he wasn't about to go back on his word and take advantage. There'd been ample opportunity for him to use her situation for his own ends, it was obvious he could have done whatever he wanted and no one would have stopped him.

I'm better than the rest of these motherfuckers. Better, no doubt. But who was he? She sighed, wishing she knew something else about him. How old he was, where he was from, what his family was like, how he'd got involved in the club and ended up in prison.

His eyes sprang open, their golden light startling her. She clutched the bedsheets. "You're awake."

"You're staring at me." His voice was a low rumble that she could feel in the mattress.

"No."

"Yes." He gave an almost smile. "What were you thinking?"

"You have a lot of scars," she confessed. "I was...wondering about them, how you got them."

The smile turned into a grimace as he traced the cut on his top lip with his fingers. "Damn ugly, huh?" There was a real note of disgust in his voice, of disappointment or sadness too. She felt guilty for bringing up a sore subject.

"I don't think that," she told him, quickly. "Not at all. I think they're... intriguing."

An eyebrow rose. "Yeah?"

"And manly."

His smile came back a little at that. "Well, that's something, I guess."

"So, how did you get them? Was it in prison?"