Beneath the Scars

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” I snapped. I hated pity.

“I’m not feeling sorry for you. I said I was sorry people chose to be unkind because of your scars. There’s a difference,” she snapped right back. A dull flush tinged her cheeks, her eyes glinting and fiery with annoyance as she frowned at me. Despite her anger, I found her incredibly attractive and my lips quirked.

“What?” she spat at me.

I shook my head as I chuckled and grabbed the bottle of wine to top up our glasses. I might be low on food, but I never ran out of wine. “I was thinking how I wanted to capture you on film again, looking exactly like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a kitten trying to act like a tiger. All growls and swipes of your little paws as you hiss at me, putting me in my place.” I reclined back, taking a deep swallow of my wine as I gazed at her over the rim of the glass. “You’re very sexy when you’re angry. Did you know that?”

“Stop it.”

“It’s true. Your eyes flash, and the color on your cheeks is sublime. Your glare, which I’m certain you mean to be angry, is more of a turn on than anything.”

“I am angry at you. You twist everything I say.”

I tilted my head in acknowledgment. “I know. It’s a bad habit I picked up after years of being lied to.” Lifting her hand, I kissed the knuckles. “I apologize. I’ll try harder.” I placed another kiss on her skin. “But I still want to capture you when you’re angry.”

Rolling her eyes, she stood up, taking our empty plates. “Somehow, Zachary, I have a feeling you’ll get what you wish for without much effort.” She sighed as she walked to the sink. “You seem to be able to make me angry faster than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I closed the distance between us in two large steps. Cupping the back of her neck, I brought her mouth to mine. “Anger is simply another form of passion,” I murmured against her lips.

“A tiring one,” she returned in a whisper. “And I won’t ever lie to you.”

“Everyone lies.”

“No, they don’t. Whatever world you were in where they did, I’m glad you’re out of it.” She paused, frowning. “I’m glad you’re here—with me.”

I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to think about the past, or groceries, or even what was going to happen tomorrow. All I wanted was to lose myself with her again. To block out everything else.

I picked her up, striding down the hall with her cradled in my arms, my mouth covering hers.

She wanted me to be happy. Having her wrapped around me, buried inside her, made me happy.

For however long I had her, that was what I wanted.10MeganThe sun slowly rose, the soft light filling the room as I lay in silence, staring at Zachary. Sound asleep, his face was peaceful, the stress lines, which seemed etched in his skin while awake, now relaxed and smooth on his forehead. Lying on his side, his scars hidden from view, he was, indeed, a handsome man. Long lashes, a woman would envy, rested on his upper cheek, dark and thick like fringes on a cushion. His nose was slightly fuller than conventional, and his face long, with prominent, strong cheekbones. Unshaven, his chin was thick with coarse hair, at least on one half of his face. His hair was so dark you expected his eyes to match, so when you were met with hazel-colored irises, it was unusual.

I wondered if he knew how his eyes changed color to match his mood or how mesmerizing it was when it happened. I’d seen them a bright blue, a reflective shade of green, and when angry, an icy gray. They reminded me of the ocean waves he liked to paint—never ending with the varying shades of color, rich and vibrant with life. They darkened when he was passionate—either with desire or anger. I was already familiar with those emotions. One look from Zachary could cause my heart to flutter in my chest. Never had I felt myself so attuned to another person’s emotions; it was as if my soul felt the shift of his mood and transformed itself to match. He could make me feel lust, anger, or happiness so fast; I barely knew it was happening.

I also wondered if anyone ever looked close enough to notice when he seemed angry or dismissive, the expression in his eyes actually belied his actions. They spoke of hurt and pain, of pushing you away before you could push him away. Somehow, I doubted it, since as soon as he began pushing, they began walking. That was exactly what he banked on. He chose when you left, not the other way around.

I sighed as he slept on. His heavy arm draped over my waist, where it had been most of the night, not allowing me to move very much. I hadn’t been sure if he’d want me to stay or not after we’d eaten, but when he stood up, lifting and carrying me back to his room, my uncertainty vanished. I wanted to stay here with him. I couldn’t understand the draw I had or why it was so important for me to be with him, but it was. Never before had I acted like this with another man—or even another person. It was as though I couldn’t stay away from him. From the moment I saw his painting: Tempest—the angry swirls of paint spoke to me. When I met the irate, scarred man behind the brush, I was drawn to him, as well.