"The same goes for me," I said.

He turned to look at me. “Why is that?”

"I had a friend who had acid thrown on her face by her ex. He swore if he couldn’t have her, no one would. So he had the great idea of splashing her face with acid. She lost an eye and her pain was so intense she was unable to even shut her eyes for a moment to sleep. She was a very beautiful girl and she couldn’t take it to see what she had become. I’d go to see her in hospital every day and she would say nothing. I knew she was awake, but she was unwilling to move, or speak, or acknowledge anyone at all. In the end she took her own life. And then my father went and died in one. So, you see, hospitals are not my favorite place either.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his gaze boring into mine.

I knew he was thinking about his own disfigurement.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked suddenly.

I nodded and watched him leave. He was in a camel coat that went past his calves. Mrs. Blackmore had chosen it and brought it to him because it was just the right thickness for the weather, and he had carelessly thrown it over his shoulder, but it perfectly complemented the plain white shirt he had tucked into his dark gray slacks.

The ensemble, although simple would have made anyone look regal, but coupled with the natural grace of his frame, and the layer of mystery and danger that the mask added to his demeanor, he almost looked too intimidating to approach.

He returned a few minutes later with a bottle of juice and water. I chose the juice and lifted it to my lips while he kept the water by his side.

“Aren’t you going to drink something?” I asked.

“Later,” he replied, his gaze ahead and deep in thought.

It was late at night and we were the only ones in that waiting room. “Who do you wear the mask for? Yourself or others?”

He didn’t look away. “I wear it for myself because of others.”

“Because they’ll pity you?”

“Because they’ll make me angry. I don’t want any eyes on me …” He turned away. “I never did.”

“What about my eyes?” I asked.

For the longest time, he watched me without moving, until I lifted my hands. The moment I touched the sides of his face, he lowered his head. I went on, towards his ears, carefully, but when I touched the string to pull it away, he caught my wrist.

His touch seared me and I waited with bated breath. For what exactly, I was unsure.

“Your pulse is racing,” he murmured.

I said the first thought that came to mind. “I want to see you.”

He smiled, sadly, and roved his eyes over my face, his gaze settling on my lips. “And I want to fuck you.”

In that moment … the world, time … and my breathing slowed down. My heart stuttered in response, and it made me breathless. “Okay.”

His eyes widened.

I returned my gaze to his hold on my wrist, and began to reach again for the string around his ear.

“Charlotte …” he warned, but I ignored him, overtaken by determination.

“I want to look at you … please … let me.”