Page 56 of Knot Like Other Girls

"I think I can try." I meet his gaze steadily. "But that's not really what you want, is it?"

The growl cuts off abruptly. Cole goes very still, the kind of stillness that usually precedes violence. But I hold my ground. I know this dance, know the steps by heart. Sometimes the only way to help Cole is to force him to face what he's running from.

"What I want doesn't matter," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The hell it doesn't." I take another step closer, close enough now that I can smell the blood on his knuckles and the frustration and fear pouring off him. "You want to stay. You want to see where this goes. You're just scared shitless of what that means."

"Fuck you, Roman," he growls.

"Am I wrong?"

Before he can answer, we both catch Bella's scent getting stronger. She's coming back. Cole immediately tries to shift away, to turn his scarred side from the door, but then he pauses.

I glance back at Bella as she enters the room, the first aid kit clutched to her chest. She glances between us warily, like she's worried a fight's going to break out. And if I don't get the fuck out of here, that very well might happen.

"You got this, right?" I ask her.

She nods.

And with that, I leave the two of them alone.

CHAPTER 17

COLE

My jaw clenches as Bella guides me to a chair in the kitchen, each step feeling like a march to execution. The fluorescent lights above us highlight every ridge and valley of scar tissue on my face and neck. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished chrome of the refrigerator—a monster in a horror show, half my face twisted into a permanent snarl that bares several teeth through ruined flesh.

Every instinct screams at me to run, to get as far away from her gentle hands as possible. To spare her the revulsion of touching this ruined flesh. But I stay frozen in place as she sets the first aid kit on the counter, the white plastic box a stark contrast against the dark marble.

"This might sting a little," she warns softly, pulling out antiseptic wipes. The packaging crinkles in her delicate hands.

I almost laugh, the sound catching like broken glass in my throat. As if a little antiseptic could compare to having half your body melted off. To watching your own flesh bubble and char as the flames consumed everything you used to be. But I hold my tongue, watching warily as she takes my right hand in hers.

The first touch of her fingers against my scarred skin sends electricity shooting up my arm. The texture difference between her soft skin and my ravaged flesh makes bile rise in my throat. No one should have to touch this. To feel the way the explosion reshaped me into something barely human. I fight the urge to jerk away, forcing myself to stay still as she begins cleaning the blood from my split knuckles. Her hands are impossibly small compared to mine, impossibly gentle as she works.

Her scent wraps around me, piercing through the artificial chemical stench Braxley pumps through the vents. Warm caramel coffee and kindness and everything I don't deserve. Something that calls to the deepest, most primal part of me. The part that still thinks it's human enough to deserve a mate.

Mate.

The word echoes in my head like a curse, like the punch line to some cosmic joke. The universe must have a sick sense of humor, dangling this perfect omega in front of a creature like me.

I don't deserve a mate.

Not when I'm more monster than man. Not when children cry at the sight of me and mothers pull them to the other side of the street. Not when my own reflection makes me want to put my fist through the mirror.

"These cuts are pretty deep," Bella murmurs, her brow furrowed in concentration. The gentle press of her fingers against my torn knuckles sends sparks of pain through my hand. Pain I welcome. Pain I deserve. "What did you hit?"

"Wall," I grunt, not trusting myself to say more. Not when her touch is setting every nerve ending on fire. Not when the scarred tissue screams with oversensitivity while the dead patches feel nothing at all. A constant reminder of how broken I am.

She makes a soft sound. Not quite disapproval, but close. "Yeah. Brick walls tend to win those fights."

I stay silent, watching as she carefully cleans each split knuckle. She doesn't seem bothered by the rough texture of my scarred skin, doesn't hesitate to touch the places where the tissue is twisted and mottled. The gentle sweep of her fingers is almost hypnotic. No one's touched me like this since Sarah. Since she saw what was left of me and couldn't hide her horror fast enough.

"I should clean that cut on your eyebrow too," she says after a while, glancing up at my face. At the gash Troy's fist left above my fucked up eye. The one with a lower lid that's pulled down, the one that barely works, the one that sees the world through a haze on my bad days.

A growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it.

No one touches my face. Not the doctors who put me back together. Not the pack who's seen me at my worst.

---