Gross.
I blow out a long breath, firm in my resolve not to fall victim to it. I give the door a couple of sharp raps. I can’t hear anything past the thick pane of wood so I crack it open to inquire if she’s ready.
“Ready.”
Even that one word is full of hoarse apprehension. It isn’t enough to dull the thick spark of satisfaction that drums through me at the sight of her and the white silk waterfall of her hair spilling down across her back.
There’s nothing particularly nerve-wracking about the act of marking someone yet my blood pumps unsettlingly hard as I near. I work a swallow and prop one knee on the bed beside her to lean on. Her weight shifts with mine, hip hidden under the covers settling against my knee.
She doesn’t make to remove it.
Her arms are wrapped tightly around her head, blanket still pulled up past her shoulders. I feel like I should say something, lighten the mood, and displace the growing tension in the air but my mind is full of all the wrong things.
She shifts, loosening her arms to turn her head in my direction. “Have you done this before?
I’m grateful she’s broken the silence instead. “Marked someone?”
“Yeah.”
“I have not.” I reach forward to sweep the hair from her neck. “At least not a person. I’ve marked objects but they’re not so different. It won’t be difficult.”
This jaded anticipation buzzes under my skin. Still most inappropriately thrilled to glimpse portions of her I haven’t yet seen. I slowly pull the blanket down, revealing first the sharp yet feminine carve of her shoulder blades. Keeping my eyes trained on the length of her spine, I drink in her shape, trying not to allow my imagination to wander to other things I could potentially be doing on this side of her, or allow my eyes to stray further down to where her breasts press against the mattress. Tension lines her muscles.
I’ve only just made it past her shoulder blades when she suddenly, almost shouting, calls out, “Wait!”
I snatch my hand back and freeze.
“Wait,” she says quieter this time. She flips her head back like she’s trying to get a look at herself. “Could you just leave it right there?”
“The…blanket?”
“That should be enough room, shouldn’t it?”
It’s not nearly enough room. “I have three marks to put on you…the mark of the goddess is quite large.”
I look down to find her anxiously chewing at her lip, her cheeks flushing a vibrant pink. “Is this--me seeing your back…consideredscandalousto you?”
“No!”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have a scar,” she blurts out. “I mean—I have scars.”
“Oh.” A short tense silence ensues. Suddenly her reluctance makes much more sense. “You know I of all people would never judge you for that,” I say, hastily.
She turns her head toward the pillow. “I know—I just—I’ve never—no one’s seen them.”
“No one had seen mine either,” I assure her. It’s not entirely true. Both Imenand and Morin had seen it but that was all. “Are they from your fall?”
“I guess—I just— I feel like you do about yours in that—I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course. We don’t have to talk about it,” I say seriously, respecting that more than anyone.
She puffs out a long breath, turns her head to the pillow in what I take as permission. But then her arms squeeze tighter around her head, muscles tensing as if anticipating…Apprehension coils in me and I quickly smash it down. I would never judge her for it no matter how bad they are. I’ll assure her that they’re nothing to even blink at.
I’m halfway down her back when I spot the first one. One slightly risen, almost like a welt in an even brighter shade of white than the rest of her pale skin. I yank the blanket down to rumple at her waist and stiffen, blinking rapidly. I expected something portraying a past injury—something patchy and inconsistent, maybe even a burn—accidental in nature.
This was no accident.