Page 65 of Tangled Desires

A slight frown pulls at my lips—there’s a damn story there, and I’m not about to ask. I drag my eyes lower, catchingPricetattooed across his chest in thick, bold letters, then—wait. What the hell?

I spot a raised bump just below the ink. My fingers graze over it, and my eyes widen when I see another one near his collarbone. And another on his arm. I squint at his bicep. Holy shit.

Those arescars.

Harrison stirs, head swivelling toward me, blinking like a damn sleepy puppy. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice gravelly, but his smile falters when he sees my expression. In a flash, he’s sitting up, snatching his shirt off the floor and yanking it over his head in a single motion.

“How long’ve you been awake?”

“Not long.” My voice comes out quiet. Too quiet. “Harrison, those marks—”

“Are nothing,” he finishes for me. His tone goes all hard, eyes dodging mine.

“They don’t look like just nothing…” I hesitate. “What happened?”

“Probably just a rash.” His jaw is tight, his words a low murmur.

I sit up further on the bed. “Are you sure? Maybe you should—” My own words trail off because I don’t even know what to say or what I’m asking. Harrison stays quiet, busying himself—tossing socks into the hamper by the door, picking at his shirt, crossing his arms like he’s trying to block me out. My eyes zero in on his arms, on the places where I know those marks are.

“That doesn’t look like a rash,” I try again, quieter this time. He doesn’t answer. Maybe I’m crossing a line. But those aren’t just marks—they’re scars. Scars from something. Am I prying? Probably. But we’re past that, aren’t we? We’ve been intimate many times. I’m carrying his child, for Christ’s sake—shouldn’t we really know each other by now?

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to push. I just want to understand you, to—”

“They’re from my father.” His words cut through the air, sharp and sudden, leaving me frozen. Completely caught off guard. “They came from him.”

“You mean… J-Joe?”

“No.” His voice is coarse. “Not Joe. Mybiologicalfather.”

“What? Why… would he do that?”

“Because he’s a sadistic fuck,” he snaps, his body locking up like a coiled spring. “A weak, pathetic piece of shit who got off on hurting his own kids. Like it made him feel powerful or something.” I want to say something—anything—but the words stick in my throat, choked by the heaviness hanging between us. The air feels suffocating, thick with the weight of what he’s just admitted.

“Harrison, I—”

“I don’t need your pity, Imogen.” His darkened gaze holds mine. “I’ve done enough of that myself. I don’t need anyone else adding to it.”

I swallow hard, holding his stare. “I never said I pity you, Harrison. I just… I’m trying to understand you. To know you. The real you. Not just the parts you think are easy to show.”

The rawness in his voice hits like a gut punch. He doesn’t want sympathy, fine. But it sure as hell doesn’t stop the ache spreading like fire in my chest. I inhale a shaky breath, steady myself, then pat the empty space on the bed beside me.

“Come here.”

For a moment, I think he won’t move, but then he does. His shoulders are tense, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world on them, but he sits beside me. Without thinking, I pull him close, wrapping my arms around him. He stiffens at first—every muscle in his body fighting the embrace, like he’s never been held like this before. His heart races against mine, fast, unsure. After a few seconds, his body softens, and I feel him give in just a little. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer.

We stay like that for a while, just breathing together, until I finally pull him down beside me on the bed, his head resting near mine. “You don’t have to say more,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

“You didn’t piss me off, Immy,” he answers quickly. “You could never piss me off. Don’t apologise, please.”

Silence falls between us, thick and heavy, like we’re both trying to breathe through something unspoken. Then, in the quiet, Harrison’s soft voice breaks the tension. “My mum… growing up, she wasn’t always like this. The way she is now. Gary, my biological father, got her hooked on drugs. Alcohol. Once he had her, she’d leave me and Michael alone for days just to be with him. And when he was around, he’d take his anger out on me. Mostly,” he pauses. “I was seven the first time he hit me.”

The words hit me like a slap, and I can’t stop the gasp that escapes. My hand flies to my mouth, my mind spiraling. A seven-year-old Harrison—there’s no way. My stomach twists at the thought of him being so small, so helpless, against a grown man. “I think he liked it when I fought back. When I’d tell him to stop.” He releases a shaky breath. “Like it made him feel better. Made him… stronger. Sometimes, he’d make me stand against a door, and throw knives at me—like a fucking game. Told me it was to ‘toughen me up.’ Said one day I’d thank him.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “His mates would watch, too. They’d laugh, like it was all just a fucking game. I didn’t know I had ADHD back then. I just knew I wasn’t like other boys… or like Michael.”

My hand reaches out, lightly brushing his arm, pushing the sleeve up. Beneath the tattoos, faint marks—tiny, almost lost—are carved into his skin. I focus on one, a round scar, and then a few more scattered across his shoulder and bicep. “And these?” I ask, voice shaking.

“Cigarettes.”

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