Page 19 of Our Secrets and Scars

His eyes sparkle in amusement as he gently moves me to one side with his hand at my hip so that he can place his order at the counter. A cappuccino topped with powdered cinnamon and an extra shot of caramel.

It surprises me. I’d have put him down as a double espresso kind of man. The sort who would walk into a bar and order two fingers of whiskey before downing it in one swallow.

My skin tingles at the point where his hand spans my hip, fingers brushing under my shirt and over the skin at my waist, and my breath catches in my throat. I feel like I should move away, but I don’t.

Once more, I let him guide me where he wants me, moving us both to the end of the bar, where we wait for our drinks to be made.

“No, Violet.” He chuckles. “I’m not stalking you.”

I look up at him with a frown. “Then why is it that you’re everywhere I go?”

“Hmm, let’s see.” He drags his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles on it for a moment. “Youran intomethe other week and thenyoucame intomyplace of work a few days later. If anyone’s stalking anyone here, I’d say the evidence points to you, no?”

My mouth falls open. “Are you kidding?”

He looks at me seriously for a long beat, eyes unblinking. It makes me nervous, how he can hold my gaze as if it doesn’t bother him at all. It makes me wonder what he sees when he looks at me.

Does he see through my layers of makeup to the scars beneath? Or does he believe the lie I paint onto my face every morning?

I don’t know which one I’d rather be true.

Finally, his face breaks out in a wide smile. It’s so playful and bright that it’s completely at odds with the roughness of the rest of his features.

The small crescent moon tattoo beneath his eye that is dainty in size but titanic in presence reminds me of the teardrop tattoos convicted murderers get for each person they’ve killed. It intimidates me, but some innate, primal part of me wants to dart out my tongue and lick it.

His eyebrows, dark and thick, fall heavy over his stormy eyes in a way that makes him look threatening, which is only intensified by the barbell he has pierced through the corner of the right one. His nose, which is crooked in a way that suggests it’s been punched one too many times, points down to a sharp chin and even sharper jawline.

Everything about him screams danger, but his smile is anything but.

And the way I feel in his presence, though I don’t know him, is nothing less than safe and somewhat sheltered. Like he’d protect me if I needed it. I don’t understand it, but it’s true, nonetheless.

“Yeah, little one, I’m kidding.”

I look down at his hand that isstillholding my hip.

The heat of him burns me, but not in the same way that the tattoo did or the fire that gave me my scars. It’s an incredible, indescribable kind of burning. It doesn’t singe my skin and cause pain. Rather, it heats me from the inside out. It warms my soul and brings me an overwhelming sense of comfort that doesn’t make any sense.

Because with his face tattoos and devilish smile, his wild hair, and storm cloud eyes, H is everything I’ve been conditioned to run from. Bad boys break hearts, that’s what I was taught growing up.

But if I’ve learned anything in my almost nineteen years on this Earth, it’s that dangerous men often don’t look dangerous at all. They hide behind the angelic faces of good boys. Like Ted Bundy, for instance. He didn’t have a face tattoo. Just like the man waiting for me outside. With his blond hair and blue eyes clear as crystal waters, Owen is the all-American type of guy that Ken dolls are inspired by, and young girls imagine marrying one day.

But though he may look like a man who volunteers at orphanages and helps old ladies cross the road, the aura surrounding him is darker than the catacombs beneath the church in my hometown.

The reminder of his presence makes me shudder.

The nameless man at my side looks down at me quizzically, head tilted to the side as he tries to make sense of my discomfort. And then, as if understanding, he looks over my shoulder and out the window, his body tensing as his eyes find Owen watching us through the glass.

“Is he bothering you again?” he asks, his voice gravelly and deep with some unspoken threat, though I know instinctively that it isn’t aimed at me.

“This is the first time he’s come close since the day I ran into you.”

It’s true. Even though we’re in the same class, I’ve managed to arrive after Owen every time, meaning I can take the furthest possible seat away from him. And yeah, maybe it is presumptive of me to assume that he’ll try and talk to me again, but my body goes into flight-or-fight mode whenever I lay eyes on him. I’d rather be safe than sorry.

“Hmm.” He takes his hand from my hip and rubs it down his face in thought. “Can I walk you to class?”

I raise a suspicious brow. “Why do I feel like I don’t have a choice?”

He grins but doesn’t answer. Instead, he holds his hand out for me, and for some reason, I don’t think twice before taking it. We swipe our drinks off the counter, neither of us having noticed them being placed there, and walk hand in hand out of the shop.

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