Page 59 of When Hearts Surrender

He trembles under my touch.

“It’s easy to paddle in the water when the seas are calm. But to push through and survive when there’s a storm? That’s true power. There’s help out there, and I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

A muscle twitches in his jaw as his eyes rove hungrily over my face. “T-Thank you,” he whispers.

My skin heats from his intense gaze and in this moment, I see Silas, the man from the race. He’s inside him, hiding from the public.

But don’t hide from me.

“Have you considered getting help?” I ask.

His eyes harden and he turns away from me. “I can do this on my own. It’s only a fucking speech.” He goes back to slicing his ingredients before he stacks them together.

I don’t press him. I know he needs the space to figure this out for himself.

“I’ll help you practice then.” I walk back to the refrigerator, my stomach grumbling again.Darn it, I still haven’t gotten my snack.I mull over my options.

“That soup looks good. Ohhh, there’s some deli meat. Maybe I can make a sandwich. Those blueberries arehuge,” I mutter.

He chuckles.

“Look at you scrunching your face like you’re making a decision of a lifetime.”

Spinning around, I narrow my eyes at him. The fridge door slams shut behind me. “It’s one in the morning! If I eat whatever I want, I’ll have heartburn later, not to mention what that’ll do to my waistline.” I point to my stomach for emphasis.

“You’re perfect,” he rasps, his eyes flashing before softening.

My pulse quickens, and the air thickens between us.

“Year of yeses, no? A new attitude toward life.” He smirks. “Live life on the edge, grab the bull by the horns. Eat whatever you want at one a.m.”

Slowly, he prowls toward me with an arrogant swagger, the tensed man from moments ago nowhere to be seen.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. He’s standing a few inches away from me.

Maxwell’s smile disappears as his eyes rove over my face, then my neck, and slowly rakes down my body. I’m breathing hard and know the silk pajama camisole and shorts set does little to cover my body.

The tension swells in the room as all my nerve endings awaken for this virile man, my fingers twitching with the need to touch him, to feel those hard abs and pecs, to bury my face in the crook of his neck and inhale his comforting scent of amber and sandalwood.

Unable to stop myself, I place my palm on his chest. He flinches and groans at my touch, and I feel an aching need pulsing between my legs. My hands slide underneath the flannel, fingers tracing his defined muscles until they reach his side.

His right side that’s covered in thick ropes of scars.

My eyes fly to his face in shock, noticing a pained expression on his features, his lips tight.

“What happened?”

“A boar attack when I was in high school… Ryland and I were hunting and we disturbed the beast by accident. I pushed him away and got mauled instead. Almost didn’t make it.”

He shrugs as he stares at me with those intense gray pools. “The scars cover half my body. They’re flaws. Ugly.”

His words are light, but I sense the agony behind them.

Wordlessly, my fingers trace the raised edges, some deeper than others, the ropes of scars twisting over his skin like art, a tapestry of untold pain.

How it must have hurt.

My eyes prickle as my hand kneads the tensed muscles under the puckered skin. “Not flaws, Maxwell. They’re one-of-a-kind art on a canvas. They tell me the story of someone who risked his life to save his loved one. Someone who isn’t afraid of sacrifice.”

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