I attempt to swallow around the ball of daggers in my throat. “A-are you going to bed?”
“I think I’m going to take a shower first. A long, cold shower.” With that, he stands, and I automatically flick my gaze to the massive bulge in his pants.
Warmth envelops me instantly.
“Yeah. A shower… A shower sounds good. Make sure to use soap and water,” I ramble as he walks away, his husky laugh drifting back to me.
Fuck.
Deciding that Everett has the right idea, I hurry towards the bedroom they deemed as mine and dart into the en suite bathroom. I really wish I’d showered earlier, before the stench ofdeath and engine grease and mold permeated the air. Ugh. I’m sooo not used to showering.
I like it, though.
There’s something refreshing about the warm water pelting me from above, washing away the worries and fears of the day.
When I step out of the shower twenty minutes later, I feel infinitely lighter, like the weight of the world has been washed away.
I pad back into my room in only a towel…and nearly jump a foot in the air at the sight of the familiar blood fae reclining against the stack of pillows.
Rafe’s dressed for bed, wearing a black T-shirt and shorts. I’ve never seen him like this before. It’s not as if he dresses fancy normally, but he’s usually never showing so much skin. Every time I’ve seen him before, he’s been wearing long pants and an oversized hoodie.
A knot forms in my throat as I drift my gaze over his muscular arms and legs, the latter covered with thousands and thousands of tiny cuts and scars.
Concern knits my brows together, and I hurry forward, momentarily forgetting I’m only in a towel.
“What happened here?” I kneel beside him and gently trace one of the ragged lines on his calf.
He shivers slightly, his hooded eyes fixed on my own. “You know how I get my magic.”
I do. He…cuts himself.
I’ve never thought too much about it before—hell, I even thought it was beautiful—but to see the evidence firsthand…
“Why didn’t they heal?” I whisper, lifting my fingers to another scar, this one just above his knee. “I’ve seen you cut your palm numerous times, but there are no scars there.”
“These healed once upon a time,” Rafe confesses with a shrug. “Until they didn’t. Soon, it’ll be the same for my palms.Then when those become too scarred, I’ll move to my wrists and arms.”
He says all this nonchalantly, not knowing that every word is a whip that slashes at my skin.
“I don’t like the thought of you hurting yourself,” I whisper.
He stills nearly imperceptibly, his muscles locking together. “I have to.”
“I know, but…” I gently trace a third scar, this one on his thigh. “I just don’t like seeing you hurt.”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me curiously. I can’t quite read the emotions percolating in his dark, fathomless gaze.
When he speaks next, his voice is a mere husk. “I’ve never cared about being hurt before.”
“Well, I’ll care enough for the both of us,” I say.
Before I can touch a fourth scar, he grabs my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. His touch is a startling contrast to Everett’s, who treated me like I was fragile.
“I can heal from almost everything,” he rasps out. “We all can. But repeated injuries can be lasting on fae, which is why my body is covered in scars. Is it…?” His brows clench together. “Is it ugly?”
“Of course not.” Nothing about Rafe—or any of the guys, for that matter—is ugly.
It’s incredibly unfair.
