Page 54 of Under Crimson Blades

“I don’t—”

His voice broke as he looked away. The shame that funneled through their bond took her breath away, the depth of it staggering. She physically flinched, and she couldn’t do anything but reach out toward him. Capturing his hand, she squeezed it.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she breathed. “Whatever it is, we’ll work through it.”

A tremor shivered through him, but he didn’t turn back to her as he said, “That—that baggage I told you about before, Ava: my childhood was not a happy one.”

Swallowing, he pivoted back to finally meet her gaze. What she saw there was shadowed with a darkness she’d only glimpsed in him before, and it made her eyes burn. His handsome face was full of pain that’d never abated.

“My parents were abusive,” he whispered. “It’s not something I can run from or just leave behind. I don’t think I will ever stop feeling the effects of it. What I’m saying is … I’m tainted. Forever.”

Ava’s heart dropped to her feet. Knowing that he’d been abused as a child made her realize that the confusing reactions she’d seen stemmed from something much deeper. From the way he said it, it was clear his self-worth was skewed, and that his parents had suffocated parts of his personality from a very early age. Her wolf whined within her as she tried to keep her tears from falling.

“You aren’t tainted, Remmus.” Everything in her believed it. “I see you—the true you. And you’re a good man.”

“You don’t understand. My parents—”

“Sound like terrible people,” she finished. “You are not your parents. Their sins aren’t yours.”

“But—”

Her palm cupped his cheek, silencing him with a shake of her head. “They aren’t.”

For a moment, Remmus looked like he wanted to believe her. Gone was the infectious smile and the dimple in his cheek. He looked older, more weary, as he reached out and squeezed her fingers.

“My parents took great delight in ‘reminding me of my place’, as they called it,” he began. “Since before I could walk, they tried to mold me into something I wasn’t. Nothing I ever did was good enough. I was never good enough. And when I failed—”

Remmus hesitated, and Ava’s gut churned. The shame she’d felt before crept through their mating bond. He looked away, avoiding her gaze, as he grappled with what came next.

“What happened when you failed?”

“When I failed,” he whispered, “I was forced to punish myself.”

A thread of fear trickled through their bond as Remmus slowly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The raging river, inked over unblemished skin, rippled. As the transfiguration fell away, Ava flinched.

Grooves and ridges marked the span of skin between his wrist and elbow. Some were old, flattened and flexible with time, while others bore the tell-tale pink of a new line. It meant that this wasn’t purely in the past; Remmus had continued to self-harm.

“Remmus.”

Throwing her arms around him, Ava sobbed into his chest. Every time he’d left her on the heels of his failures, he’d acted upon his parents’ memory. His shame—and the fear associated with being found out—had driven him away from her.

His hand gently sifted through her hair. “My transfiguration hides them. Both the ones on my arm and … and the others.”

Her heart squeezed in her chest. “What others, Remmus?”

“My parents told me no clan would ever take me in.” He tapped his chest right above his heart. “They carved an X on my chest where many men receive their clan marks. After I was old enough to hold a knife, they forced me to do it myself.”

All Ava could say was “Monsters.”

“My parents were one of the only mated pairs ever documented who were both born of destruction. At the core of their beings was an insatiable need to cause harm, and without a counterbalance, they’d both given in to the evil inside. I was born of creation, and my parents despised me for it. They tried to mold me into what they idolized as the perfect person: one who never forgave, never apologized, and would never be weak.”

Clinging to him, Ava fought through a wave of dizziness. He’d hidden so much of what’d happened behind smoke and mirrors, but the truth remained: Remmus had never hurt her, not once, even though he’d been brutalized before he could walk.

It made sense: why he’d rarely apologized, never said thank you, and why he reacted so poorly to failure—real or perceived. His own mind was twisted into making those things sins. It was why his palms had showed evidence of scarring, and why his blade had been bloody the first day she’d entered his quarters.

“I can understand why you hide them,” she breathed, “but Remmus, I’ll never be ashamed of you or hate the sight of them. They’re a part of you, just like I am.”

Fighting tears, she absently traced one of the larger scars that crossed over the tattooed river on his arm. The thought of him in pain killed a part of her.

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