Page 72 of Tempting Devil

With trembling fingers, I brushed them along the same scar he’d pressed my hand against when he first allowed me to see this side of him.

What was going through his mind back then? He may have lied to me about how these scars came to be, but he still shared this piece of himself.

A piece that must have brought forward horrific memories.

Yet he still allowed me to see them.

“How?” I asked in a shaky voice, desperate to know the provenance of each and every mark on his body. To truly understand the depths of his torment.

He didn’t say anything right away, just stared at me, his eyes clouded with turmoil. Then he blew out a sigh, his head giving a subtle bob of acceptance.

“A knife slashed me during one of the many fights I was forced to be in,” he finally said, his voice thick with unease. It was a shift from the normally confident man I thought him to be.

But it wasn’t weakness I heard, even if his words weren’t as steady and determined as normal.

Instead, all I heard was the strength he had no choice but to exhibit every day in order to survive.

“When it was either kill or be killed,” he added.

I briefly squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing back the tears wanting to fall. But if he could withstand such brutality day after day, I could endure hearing about it, regardless of how much it made me want to scream at the unfairness of it all.

Holding his gaze, I gradually leaned down and touched a soft kiss to the mark.

He closed his eyes, releasing a shuttering breath at the feel of my lips on him. But he didn’t push me away. Instead, he ran a light hand along the curve of my face.

Straightening, I traced my fingers over the dozens of additional scars dotting his chest, stopping on the puckered skin on his left bicep.

“And here?”

“We all had numbers tattooed on our arms. When I escaped, one of the first things I did was cut it off. I’d rather have an angry scar than feel like I belonged to anyone.”

I pinched my lips together to stop my chin from quivering, every word he spoke making my insides twist and hatred grow. But that wouldn’t change what happened to him. Instead, I gave him the only thing I could — my acceptance and understanding.

Leaning closer, I touched another tender kiss to his scar, hoping my gesture would tell him what words alone never could.

“Imogene,” he exhaled, his voice barely audible, as if my name simply slipped out unexpectedly.

It was so soft. So gentle.

When he uttered my name in the past, it was more akin to a growl. Not right now.

Right now, the man with me was Samuel.

At least, what was left of him.

“And here?” I peered into his stormy gaze, caressing the angry patch of skin by his collarbone.

“That was the one mark I didn’t lie to you about. It is a burn mark.”

“But it’s not from a car accident, is it?”

He slowly shook his head. I wasn’t sure what I expected him to tell me, but I never could have prepared myself for the truth.

“Blow torch.”

A sob ripped from my throat, and Gideon — Samuel, whoever he was — pulled me against him, comforting me as I struggled to come to terms with the ugly truth of what he endured, all because of the men he once considered friends.

Because of the man I considered a friend, too.

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