The Secret Beneath the Veil

He shuddered, lips pressed into her neck, and hurried to finish with her, groaning fulfillment against her skin.

She was disappointed when he carefully disengaged and sat up, his back to her.

She started to protest that it was okay, holding him in her didn’t hurt anymore, but she was distracted by the marks on his back. They were pocked scars that were visible only because the light was so bright. She’d seen his back on the yacht, but in lamplight she hadn’t noticed the scars. They weren’t raised, but there were more than a dozen.

“What happened to your back?” she asked, puzzled.

Mikolas rose and walked first to his side of the room, where he scanned around his sinks, then went across to her vanity, where he found the remote for the shower.

“We should set some ground rules,” he said.

“Leave the remote on your side?” she guessed as she rose. She walked past her discarded towel for her white robe, wondering why she bothered when she was thinking of joining him in the shower. She wanted to touch him, to close this distance that had arisen so abruptly between them.

“That,” he agreed. “And we’ll only be together for a short time. Call me your lover if you want to, but do not expect us to fall in love. Keep your expectations low.”

She fell back a step as she tied her robe, giving it a firm yank like the action could tie off the wound he’d just inflicted.

But what did she think they were doing? Like fine weather, they were enjoying each other because they were here. That was all.

“I wasn’t fishing for a marriage proposal,” she defended.

“So long as we’re clear.” He aimed the remote and started the shower jets.

Scanning his stiff shoulders, she said, “Is this because I asked about your back? I’m sorry if that was too personal, but I’ve told you some really personal things about me.”

“Talk to me about whatever you want. If I don’t want to tell you something, I won’t.” He spoke with aloof confidence, but his expression faltered briefly, mouth quirking with self-deprecation.

Because he had already shared more than made him comfortable?

“There’s nothing wrong with being friends, is there?”

He glanced at her, his expression patient, but resolute.

“You don’t have friends,” she recalled from the other night, thinking, I can see why. “What’s wrong with friendship? Don’t you want someone you can confide in? Share jokes with?”

His rebuff was making her feel like a houseguest who had to be tolerated. Surely they were past that! He’d just enjoyed her hospitality, hadn’t he?

“They’re cigar burns,” he said abruptly, rattling the remote control onto the space behind the sink. “I have more on the bottoms of my feet. My captors used to make me scream so my grandfather could hear it over the phone. There was more than one call. Is that the sort of confiding you’re looking for, Viveka?” he challenged with antagonism.

“Mikolas.” Her breath stung like acid against the back of her throat. She unconsciously clutched the robe across her shattered heart.

“That’s why I don’t want to share more than our bodies. There’s nothing else worth sharing.”

* * *

Mikolas had been hard on Viveka this morning, he knew that. But he’d been the victim of forces greater than himself once before and already felt too powerless around her. The way she had infiltrated his life, the changes he was making for her, were unprecedented.

Earlier that day, he had risen while she slept and spent the morning sparring, trying to work his libido into exhaustion. She had to be sore. He wasn’t an animal.

But one glance at her rising from the bath and all his command over himself had evaporated. At one point, he’d been quite sure he was prepared to beg.

Begging was futile. He knew that.

But so was thinking he could treat Viveka like every other woman he’d slept with. Many of them had asked about his back. He’d always lied, claiming chicken pox had caused the scars. For some reason, he didn’t want to lie to Viveka.

When he had finally blurted out the ugly truth, he’d seen something in her expression that he outwardly rejected, but inwardly craved: agony on his behalf. Sadness for that dark time that had stolen his innocence and left him with even bigger scars that no one would ever see.