Page 73 of Scarred Souls

“If you’re about to suggest something stupid and dangerous, forget it.”

“Hear me out.”

Fuck.

“I think you should let me try.”

She couldn’t be serious. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I recoiled. How could she even ask that? “If I hurt you, I’d never forgive myself.”

“You won’t hurt me,” she replied, as though the notion were inconceivable. “And I know this because you’ve been protecting me from the moment we met, so I don’t believe for a second that you’d do anything to harm me.” She folded her arms. “Think about it. The circumstances are completely different. You’re out here in the open with a woman, not caged inside a therapist’s office with a man.”

I wasn’t sure where her confidence came from. How could she be so certain I wouldn’t lose my shit and overreact? Except, maybe she was right, because the thought of hurting Hope seemed so repulsive, so utterly nauseating, that I couldn’t imagine raising a hand against her for anything. I’d sooner walk through flames.

Still, I didn’t understand why she’d put herself at risk for me. She owed me nothing.

“Why are you offering this?”

“Because I can see how much your condition troubles you. The clothes you wear, the way you act, your relationships—your fear of touch impacts every part of your life. I want to help, Vaughn.” She gestured to the strays all around us. “Caring and healing is what we do here, and I’m pretty good at it.”

I arched a brow. “Are you comparing me to an abused dog?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure at least some of the same rehabilitation principles apply.”

Hope made it sound so easy. We both knew it wasn’t.

“Do you want to get better?” she asked.

Yeah. I really fucking did.

I nodded and swallowed against my parched throat. “In some ways, it feels like I never left that cage. Like no matter what I do, those assholes still have control over me. I don’t want to feel…imprisoned in my skin. I hate it. I hate the way it feels. I hate the way it looks. Sometimes, I wish I could tear it off and let new skin grow so I wouldn’t be reminded of what they did to me every time I look in the mirror.”

It was a disturbing thought I sometimes had, although I’d never told anyone before. I wasn’t sure why I mentioned it now. Maybe it was because Hope and I both had vicious scars and there was a chance she felt the same. Maybe it was because she was the first person I’d been able to drop my guard and talk about my haphephobia with and not feel like a complete freak. Or maybe it was because she didn’t look at me with trepidation like most people did when they realized how screwed up I was.

“It would be a shame to lose all of that beautiful ink.” Her eyes traveled down my neck and over my T-shirt-covered chest as though she were recalling what she’d seen in the shower. Then her neck and cheeks flushed, giving away exactly what kind of thoughts were running through her mind.

Christ, I could take her face in my palms and kiss her for the timely distraction her heated gaze offered. Not that I ever would, but the idea of it kept entering my head lately.

Weird.

“My tattoos aren’t supposed to be pretty.” I’d chosen the most fear-provoking images to cover my scars, and I’d never imagined someone would find them appealing, let alone describe them as beautiful. “You really like them?”

“Men are so clueless,” she muttered, and rolled her eyes. “Women lose their minds over tattooed men.”

I stepped closer. “I didn’t ask what other women think. I want to know what you think.”

“I’ll tell you if you take your clothes off and get in the water.”

“Nice try. The T-shirt stays on.”

“Lose the tee, and I promise to go slowly.”

“Go slowly?” I blinked. “You want to start exposure therapy right now? In the water?”

“Why not?”

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