Page 7 of Crave

I wondered what I’d do. Because Landon had finally seen all my scars.

Chapter Four

Adam

Listen to Demons

by Imagine Dragons

The brutality of my father’s beatings was something I’d learned to live with. I’d tucked the memories into my past, but never pretended I wasn’t affected or that the nightmare was over. It was a part of me I had to accept or I’d go insane trying to figure out how any adult could hurt a child without thought or apology. I had accepted young that evil existed, just like good.

Kids didn’t have choices like free will. But when I finally got big enough to hit back; to stand up for myself and be my own protector; I realized if I didn’t shift my thinking, I’d get stuck in rage and blame. I didn’t want my father to own one cell of my body or mind—including my emotion, so it was important I did some work on myself to heal. It was the only way to truly free myself. I hated the bastard, but hate was a chain and I refused to tie myself to him anymore.

But the scars? They were the physical evidence I dealt with every day I looked in the mirror. I’d covered most of them with full sleeve tats on both arms so violence became art; and horror became beauty. But my chest and back I left alone—my only reminder of what I’d gone through and not only survived, but thrived. Instead of making myself feel like a victim, it made me feel like a warrior. Those scars were for me and not anyone else.

I made sure I wore a shirt at all times, even swimming. Once, I got drunk enough to take it off, and my friends had seen me, but we were all pretty fucked up so no one really remembered. I fucked with a shirt or tank on most of the time, or stripped completely when it was dark.

Rarely did I allow women to glimpse all of my scars. But lying here with Landon, with the light on, fully naked, I didn’t move. Just waited to see her reaction or what she’d do.

She reached over and traced the ridged, puckered skin where my father had burned cigarettes onto me after tying me down. Her fingers were gentle, but it was her gaze that stilled me. I’d learned the expressions well—a mix of pity, curiosity, and sometimes horror. Whether it was from the actual scars or imagination of what had happened, my defenses were always primed so no one else would be able to hurt me. But Landon’s eyes didn’t reflect any of those things. I sank into a sea of blue as calm and deep as the ocean.

“What were these from?”

Her voice was steady. The question held no morbid probing. I found myself answering easily. “Cigarettes.”

She nodded. She continued to each of the scars, as if honoring them individually. A strange tightening curled in my gut.

Her palm coasted down toward my right side. The jagged slice had never healed properly since I’d needed stitches but never got them. “This?”

“Kitchen knife.”

Another nod. As if I was fragile glass, she delicately smoothed her hand to my back, urging me to turn. I automatically obeyed, exposing the worst. I pictured what she looked upon. Whitish criss cross scars in multiple ragged lines. This time, I didn’t wait for her to ask.

“Belt.”

Her journey ended with my lower back, stretched across the top of my left buttock. I stiffened, then felt her fingers slide across the bumpy hard ridge of skin. Her voice was a whisper of silk pulled across my ears, soothing and soft and smooth.

“Glass?”

I had to clear my throat. “Broken beer bottle. He wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted from me with the belt so he decided to change things up.”

The shock of her lips against the wound had me clenching my fists. Emotion warred within at the aching tenderness of her comfort, as if she was truly kissing them to make me better. My heart squeezed in my chest.

It was almost…too much.

I began to retreat. My walls sprung up to stop this sudden fragile and terrifying vulnerability, but then she was the one who pulled back, as if my skin had burnt her lips and fingers. She reared up as I turned to face her, and within seconds, she’d straddled my naked body.

Palms on my shoulders, her dripping pussy poised over my hardening cock, Landon stared at me with a fierce blue fire flaming in her eyes. Stunned, I stared back, registering the shake of her body and the sheer rage spearing me without sympathy or apology.

“Fuck him,” she growled, teeth grit, nails digging into my already sore shoulders. “If I ever see him, I will tear him apart. I will make him hurt and bleed and cry for mercy, and then I’llfinish the job. That fucking bastard will never hurt you again. You won, Adam. You won.”

She sneered the last two words like a challenge, leaning over so her hair brushed my scarred chest, and her swollen lips paused inches from my mouth. She reminded me of a lioness; a witch; a Queen villainess who swore to avenge me. And within that white-hot anger, something burst inside me and oozed open as I realized she held no pity, or acceptance, or questions.

Landon gifted me with something so precious I had no idea I needed it.

Her rage.

I broke, reaching for her, but she was already pressing down and taking my mouth with hers. Her tongue plunged inside to tangle with mine, and at the same time, her hands grasped my cock and she lowered herself down in one strong push to take me deep.

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