When I step out of the bathroom, she’s awake, drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, staring out the window. I thought I’d take a shower while she was napping, and now I’m standing in this tiny space between the kitchen and the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, shirtless, with my hair wet and slicked back.

All my scars on display.

She turns, and her eyes widen when she sees me standing there watching her. I can’t tell from her expression if she’s feeling fear of being so close to a half-naked man or shock at all the scars from the burns and the glass, but there’s no way for me to hide them now, because they’re everywhere.

“I thought you were sleeping,” I say. The conversation earlier has my thoughts all over the place. I ran from it all—everything she was saying and asking and everything I was feeling and fighting—because I’m scared of hurting her, and I’m scared of losing her.

Maybe you are the right guy.

I never expected her to react the way she did. I always thought she’d clam up and run if she knew what kind of thoughts ran through my head. I never thought she’d be open to any of it, or even remotely want it.

“I woke up when I heard the water running.”

I take a deep breath. “This is what happens when you try to ride through a wall of glass windows in someone’s house,” I say, gesturing to my torso. Most of the time she acts like she doesn’t see my scars at all. “This is also why drugs are bad.”

Swallowing hard, she takes a step closer, clearly shaken. “That’s horrible. You could have died…”

“I was in the hospital for a long time. I missed my dad’s funeral.”

Her eyes brim with tears. “I’m so sorry, Ty.”

“I am too. I’ve done a lot of shitty things.”

“Just remember you’ve done a lot of good things, too.” Her voice is soft and sincere. “I’m proof of that.” Her hand raises and she touches her fingertips lightly to the scars that run down the side of my face.

I hold my breath, and I don’t move. I don’t want to do anything that will make her move away and take her soft touch with her.

“Is this… from the fire?” She breathes.

When I don’t answer, she moves her hand away, but I capture it in my own and hold onto it, gently, between us, and rub my thumb along the top of her hand.

“The fire and the glass window. I could have more plastic surgery. It might make it look a little better. But I’m afraid to get all fucked up on pills again.” I shake my head to make my hair fall over my face, but she pushes it back away.

“Don’t hide,” she says softly. “Not from me.”

With her free hand, she traces the other scars on my chest with her fingers, her eyes following as she explores each one. My chest heaves beneath her touch as I fight the urge to either hide myself from her or lean her into the kitchen counter and kiss her senseless. I lace our fingers together, and she squeezes my hand.

“I have scars, too,” she whispers, her voice shaking.

Gently, I brush my knuckles across her cheek. “Show me,” I whisper back.

Without breaking eye contact, she lets go of my hand, unbuttons the front of her sweater, and slides it off, letting it fall to the floor. A thin, cream-colored camisole barely covers her, its fabric stretching over her breasts. She steps toward the window, where the golden light of sunset casts just enough light over her for me to see her. She holds out her arms, showing me cigarette burns like the ones I’ve seen on Poppy’s ears and stomach. She bites her lip as she lifts up her camisole to show me her stomach and rib cage, and the long thin scars that slash across her, the memories of her torture etched into her flesh.

I hold my breath as her hands push the front of her jeans and panties down, and the gentleman in me wants to reach out and stop her, but its too late—she’s already pushed her clothes down to her mid-thigh. Rage, sadness, and a primal possessiveness rocket through me when I read the word carved into the delicate skin a few inches below her belly button, right above her pubic bone:

MINE

“This is the worst one.” Her voice is weak, almost apologetic.

All of it is horrific, each scar the worst in its own right, because every one signifies a moment that a little girl was tortured, and no one should ever have to endure so much pain. Especially a child.

But the word…it is the worst. It’s a brand. It’s his sick mark on her that will never let her forget what he did to her, and that he owned her.

Fuck you, motherfucker. She was never yours. She’s mine.

“Shit, baby…” I choke on the dry ache in my throat and move to pull her clothes up before I gather her into my arms, holding her tight against me as she cries, her tears wetting my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head.

Her arms slowly go around my waist, and she hugs me just as tight.

Lifting her chin up with my fingers, I gently coax her to meet my eyes again. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. “Every part of you.”

She bursts into tears and buries her head back into my chest, hanging onto me like she’s afraid I’m going to disappear.

I lower my head and press my lips to her bare shoulder, then turn my face into her neck, breathing her in before, dragging my lips up to kiss her perfect tear-stained cheek.

“You’re not his,” I say. “Your heart, your body, every part of you is yours. And you decide who gets to touch you from now on.”

I hold her as she cries, letting her get it out, hoping it will break down more of the walls we’ve built around ourselves. This baring of souls and secrets and exposing our damages to each other is like an exorcism—expelling the demons.

When her sobs subside, without letting her go, I grab a napkin from the table and hand it to her to wipe her face.

She gazes up at me and touches my cheek, her finger caressing the grooved flesh.

“I want to be yours,” she whispers. “Please let me be.”

I can’t resist or deny it anymore. I bend down and kiss her lips, softly at first, hoping she’ll kiss me back. Her body and mouth stiffen at my touch then slowly relax against me, and her lips part, opening against mine. I cup the back of her neck with my hand and hold her gently as my tongue delves into her mouth. I tangle my fingers in her hair and tug her closer, my pulse quickening when she gasps against my lips and then sighs into my mouth. My other hand grips her thin waist and slowly travels down to her hip, pulling her against my body.

She pulls away slightly and moves her hands to rest on my chest. “I have to tell you something…”

“Anything.” I kiss the top of her head and brace myself for another blow.

“I’ve never really been kissed before.”

Relieved, I lift her chin so I can stare down into her eyes. “That’s not true anymore.” I touch my lips softly to hers once more.

A small adorable grin spreads across her face. “You’re right.” Her gaze lowers to my mouth, and I kiss her again, a little longer this time, until she pulls back.

“And…I’m a virgin. He raped me…but…not…” I capture her lips with mine, saving her from saying the words that she doesn’t need to say and I don’t need to hear.

When we part, I hold her face in my hands. “We’ll figure things out together,” I say, then I pick up her sweater and hold it for her to slip into.

Can I be good for her? I seriously don’t fucking know. The only thing I do know is I don’t know how to let her go, especially when she’s begging me to keep her.