“It was your father’s job. You were just a boy. But you see, this is why there might be blood tainting you, but it will never consume you. You are a good man, Cyrus.” His hand drops from mine, but this time, I reach my hand out and trail my finger over a scar that tarnishes his chest. There is one round one that looks like it was caused by a bullet. I had noticed it before, but never felt comfortable asking about it. “This scar—”
“Is my monster.”
“No. That is your hope. It is your strength. It is your love. Each scar on your body inside and out was placed there because you loved your sister enough to try not to let this ever happen again.”
My fingers trail over his stomach, up his torso.
I touch his jagged scar first, then I drop a kiss on it followed by the rest of his chest. To all his exposed skin, blemished and unblemished. Because I know that even behind the muscle are scars I can’t even comprehend. There are stories that Cyrus believes makes him a monster, but I know the truth. They might tell a story, but they tell the story of a boy who lost everything. A boy who deserves love.
The scars didn’t take away from his beauty. Even with them littering the surface of his skin, he’s still beautiful. If anything, now that he told me a little bit about each one, he is more beautiful.
When I finally reach his mouth with mine, he kisses me. He kisses me like I’m the last bit of oxygen before he dies.
“Your father never deserved a daughter like you. You’re beautiful, Sun.”
He kisses my lip. “Gamilla,” he whispers as he flips me over so he’s on top of me.
“What?” I question.
“It means beautiful.” Then his lips find my jaw. “Amar. Gorgeous.” His lips trail over my throat. He kisses the hollow of my neck. “Noor Eineya. The light of my eyes.” And then he places his lips on my heart. “Tu es à moi.” His words cause my heart to swell, making me want to give that boy my love.
But can I?
He says he’s a monster, and I know he’s not.
But is he mine to love?
Will he ever be?
He took me for the right reasons to protect me, but what happens next?
Will he love me?
Can he?
Or like the list of women in his closet, will my name just be added?
* * *
When I wake up the next morning, I find Cyrus’s part of the bed empty. Without him here, it feels like a blinding fog has lifted from my eyes.
Last night still lingers in the air. All the truths we spoke, and what it means for the future.
I’m falling for Cyrus Reed. A part of me already has, but there is one part that can’t reconcile the man who took me, who kept me here all these months.
What do I really know about him?
A lot, actually.
Probably more than most.
He told me about his job, about his sister.
But still, something feels unsaid.
I stand from the bed and grab his button-down shirt that lays on the chair. Once it’s buttoned, I head into his closet.
Last night, I was consumed with him and his demons, but now in the light of the day, the things I tried to push away come rushing back in.
The list.
I never asked him what it meant.
How can I move forward without knowing what this means?
Sitting on the floor, I pull the box out from where it is hidden and start to rummage through it again.
Cyrus caught me the last time, but this time, I will ask him point-blank what the list is. Who are the women?
I need to know.
So many feelings are circulating through my body. Feelings burst out of me, but I can’t let them take root and grow, not until I have all the truths.
Not until I know what this is.
He says beautiful words I don’t really understand.
He makes love to my body and touches my soul. It would be so easy to fall in love with him, to admit that this is what I am feeling, but until I know that I am not another notch on his belt or, better yet, another name on a list, I need to tamp down the feelings that threaten to spill forth from my heart.
I need to erect those walls.
Because once they come down, once I give every last part of myself to Cyrus, I’m not sure I will ever be able to rebuild them again.
I’m there for a while, on the floor of the closet, staring. When I hear the sound of a gasp behind me.
The woman.
The one I haven’t seen in weeks, ever since Cyrus started feeding me himself, is here.
I look up at her like a deer in headlights, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the picture in my hand. I follow her line of vision, from her to the photograph, that’s when I finally see it.