Page 74 of Pack Fever

He wipes my tears. “Will you promise me that?”

“So…” I blink through the tears, grasping his hand like a lifeline. “So, you still want me around?”

His brow furrows. “Why would you ever think otherwise? Do you have any idea how much light you’ve brought into the band, how much the three of us would miss you?”

A laugh spills past my lips, and I’m surprised I can even do anything other than cry.

“Reed would be happy to see the back of me.”

Seth shakes his head. “You’d be surprised to discover the truth of how he feels for you, even if he has no idea how to show it.”

I nibble on my lower lip, unsure how much I believe that after my few run-ins with Reed.

“The three of us,” Seth continues. “We went through hell growing up to get where we are. We are each scared inside and out.” He huffs. “I went off the rails earlier this year. The band broke up because I drowned my pain with the bottle. So, there is nothing perfect about us. But when I look at you, do you know what I see?”

I wipe away more tears, shaking my head and my chest squeezing.

“A strong Omega who gives sass as good as she gets it, a beautiful soul who’s been shoved into a shitty situation and just wants to be seen. Who wants to be given a chance to shine.”

I furiously blink my tears away as his words hit me like a ton of bricks.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I’m drowning in a whirlwind of emotions… embarrassment mostly, and fear that he’s just saying all these things in the moment.

“Let me clean your arm,” he says, already on his feet and grabbing the fallen towel. He opens the cabinet, and it doesn’t take him long to track down the loose blade hidden in the corner. He tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.

I’m unsure how I’m supposed to feel, but I’m dazed.

Kneeling back in front of me, he has a tube of antiseptic cream in his grasp as well, and he’s staring at me, waiting.

I hesitate for a heartbeat, but his reassuring smile encourages me to reach over to the fabric of my shirt at my shoulder. Slowly, with a shaky hand, I peel the fabric down, revealing a disfigured mess of scars on my skin. I glance away, my brow furrowing, not wanting to see it, not wanting his disgusted expression.

“You don’t need to do this,” I mumble, quivering because I feel exposed, and I hate it.

When I start to pull the fabric back up my arm, his gentle touch is on mine, stopping me.

“Danica, the scars don’t scare me or turn me off. They are a story of something horrible you’ve experienced, something that one day you’ll share, but until then, it’s okay. It’s not something to repel me.” His fingers faintly trace my arm, the sensation pronounced. No one has touched my arm for years, let alone seen the damage.

Tension grips my insides. I’d like nothing more than to cover up and pretend this never happened.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Seth says as he cleans my cut, then puts antiseptic cream on it, which stings. I don’t make a sound, only clench my teeth. “Besides, you’re not the only special one with scars.” He’s wearing a quirky grin, which makes me smile.

“You look pretty perfect to me.”

Suddenly, he’s on his feet and tugs down the waistband of his jeans over a hip. Of course, having no control, I’m staring at every inch of skin he reveals, my pulse speeding up. There on his hip is a long, red scar that once had stitches. It looks wickedly deep, and I gasp at the sight.

“What happened?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the healed injury.

“I got into a fight when I was heavily drunk once. It was fucking horrible, and I got badly cut by a broken beer bottle.”

“Oh, shit.” I swallow hard. “It looks so deep.”

“It was. It was a wakeup call.” Then he wrenches his jeans back up.

I’m torn by the pain he must have gone through. I’d read the articles about him spiraling out of control, drinking so heavily, he got into fights at concerts, on the stage, and with the crowd. The man kneeling back down in front of me, fiddling with unpacking a Band-Aid, is someone different from the person the media portrayed.

As he plasters my cut, his fingers are on my hand, and I still struggle to look down at my injuries.

“I hate my arm, hate my skin,” I confess quietly, my voice trembling. I have no idea why I told him that.

---