Page 57 of Knot Like Other Girls

No one.

But Bella doesn't flinch at the sound. Just looks at me with those green eyes that see too much. That look at my ruined face like I'm something worth looking at.

"Please?" she asks softly.

Something in my chest cracks at that gentle plea.

One word, and it slips past all my defenses.

I find myself giving a short nod, even as every muscle in my body tenses for what's coming. For the inevitable moment when revulsion wins out over kindness.

She moves slowly, carefully telegraphing her movements as she reaches for my face. When her fingers brush against my scarred cheek, I jerk back instinctively, decades of conditioning screaming at me to hide, to protect myself from the horror and disgust that always follows.

The memory of Sarah's face when she first saw me after the explosion flashes through my mind. The way her eyes widened, the way her face blanched, the small step back she took before she could catch herself. The beginning of the end.

But Bella doesn't recoil. Doesn't flinch away from the rough texture of my ruined skin. Her touch remains steady, impossibly gentle as she cleans the cut. Like she's handling something precious instead of monstrous.

"How long have you been carving?" she asks conversationally, and I realize she's trying to distract me. Not from any physical pain—that stopped registering years ago—but from the panic clawing at my throat. From the voice in my head screaming that I don't deserve for her to even be in the same room with me.

I have to swallow twice before I can speak. "Since... after." The word tastes like ash in my mouth.

She doesn't need to ask after what. The evidence is written all over my face, carved into my flesh like some twisted artist's signature.

"It must take a lot of patience," she continues, her fingers careful around the tender flesh. "All those tiny details. The feathers looked so real."

I shrug, hyperaware of every point of contact between her skin and mine. Every place where smooth meets scarred, soft meets ruined. "Helps me focus. Keeps my hands busy," I mutter.

Keeps them from destroying things.

"Instead of hitting walls?" There's no judgment in her voice, just quiet understanding. Like she knows something about needing an escape. About feeling trapped in your own skin.

Another shrug. I don't know how to explain that sometimes the rage and self-hatred build up until I have to let it out somehow. That the physical pain is better than drowning in memories I can't escape. Better than remembering the way mymate looked at me like I was something that should have died in that explosion.

"Well," she says, applying a small butterfly bandage to the cut, "maybe next time you feel like punching something, you could carve something instead? I'd love to see more of your work."

I have no fucking clue what to say to that. When was the last time anyone showed interest in something I created? When was the last time anyone looked at me and saw more than just a monster?

"Why are you doing this?" The question bursts out before I can stop it, rough and raw like everything else about me.

Her hands still against my skin. "Doing what?"

"This." I gesture vaguely at my face, my bandaged hands. At all the broken pieces she's trying to put back together. "Helping me. You should be... you should be afraid. Disgusted. Everyone else is."

Everyone else has the sense to stay away.

She opens her mouth like she's going to argue, but she thinks better of lying to me. "I'm not everyone else," she murmurs instead.

And God help me, I want to believe her.

She finishes bandaging my hands, but her fingertips linger on my skin. The touch is barely there, like butterfly wings against my scars, but it sets every nerve ending alight. Makes me feel things I thought burned away years ago.

For the first time, someone's hands on my scars don't make me want to crawl out of my skin. Don't make me feel like a freak.

When she finally steps back, she gives me a smile. Not the forced, pitying ones I'm used to getting from the rare few who don't look utterly horrified. Not the tight-lipped grimace of someone trying not to stare me.

A real smile, warm and genuine.

Like I'm worth smiling at. Like the monster in front of her deserves that kind of light.

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