Page 23 of Our Secrets and Scars

It’s the kind of thing Kinsley would have worn back when she was popular before the incident disfigured her face. She’d have felt good in it, even sexy. She’d have walked into this party with her arms in the air, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and danced in the very center of the room like she was performing on stage.

But now I’m Violet, and I just feel like a fraud.

I look hot at first glance; I know that. It’s a fact that’s clear in the looks I’ve been getting by guys as they walk past. They leer and lick their lips and drag their eyes slowly up and down my body, but I know that they’d only look at me in repulsion if they saw what I really looked like if I took off all my makeup and showed them my face underneath it. They’d run for the fucking hills.

Because the picture I paint of myself and show to the world is a lie. You can’t polish a turd, they say, but you can roll it in glitter. And even then, a turd is still a turd.

I try to shake myself free of the self-loathing, focusing my attention instead on Isla, who’s grinding on some girl in the middle of the dance floor. Every so often, she turns to look at me and tilts her head to the side, silently asking if I’m doing okay. I give her a thumbs-up and reassuring smile, even though I’d rather be at home.

My skin begins to prickle with the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. I cast my eyes around the room but find no one obviously staring or even looking my way at all. The feeling doesn’t ebb though. It lingers like stale cigarette smoke and makes me shiver.

I push off the wall I’m leaning against and make my way through the mass of bodies to the kitchen. The air is slightly clearer in here now that I’m surrounded by fewer people, but my shoulders still feel heavy, the paranoia of being watched having followed me into the room.

A throat clears, and I turn around, finding Owen standing too closely behind me. My heart jumps, and I instinctively step backward.

“Hey, Violet,” he says, extending an already opened bottle of beer out toward me. “I saw you back there and thought you might like a drink.”

Not wanting to be rude, I take it and smile tentatively. “Thanks.”

He grins, lips stretching across stark white teeth. It’s predatory, almost shark-like. I shudder inwardly, not understanding why my body has such a violent reaction to a man I’ve only ever spoken to once. But it’s like an instinct, something even stronger than intuition or even a gut feeling, that I can feel in the very marrow of my bones. Like repelling magnetic fields, my entire being, mysoul,resists being close to him.

Owen, though, obviously doesn’t feel the same.

He steps into me, forcing me backward until I feel the hard marble of the kitchen island behind me. His arms reach either side of me, hands leaning on the countertop as he closes me in.

The putrid smell of him surrounds me like a thick fog. It’s sweet and minty, similar to patchouli, and though it isn’t unpleasant exactly, it clogs my lungs until I’m close to suffocating.

“Where’s your boyfriend tonight?” he asks with a slightly threatening undertone.

I’m caught so off guard by seeing him and so damn rattled by having him this close to me that I almost ask, “What boyfriend?”

But a large shadow falls over us just before I’m able to. It’s imposing and dark and kind of dangerous, but it steals the air from my lungs in relief. I no longer feel like I’m being smothered, but I’m still struggling to breathe.

For a different reason now though.

Healways seems to do this to me. He makes my lungs ache with the desperate need for oxygen but inhaling feels impossible when the air is so thick with the colossal, overwhelming size of his presence.

He sets a heavy hand on Owen’s shoulder and roughly pulls him away, instantly stepping in front of me in a gesture so protective and alpha, it makes my heart jump a little. His fists are curled at his sides, and his stance is wide, as if preparing to fight.

My hand reaches for him, and I curl my fingers around his arm. He relaxes instantly. It’s as if my touch is the reassurance he needs to know I’m okay.

It doesn’t make sense though.

I’m just a girl he keeps running into. Someone he’s looked out for a couple of times, but no one who should make his muscles tense and his body rigid just because some guy won’t leave her alone.

And though I know I shouldn’t, I like it.

I like that he cares.

Maybe it’s because I’m so desperate for positive attention, but deep down, I know that’s not it. Because the truth is, he reminds me of Fletcher. It’s in the way he speaks and the power of his presence. How he seems dangerous at a surface level but makes me feel safer than anyone ever has.

Part of me feels guilty for feeling like that. Like maybe I’m betraying Fletcher somehow for thinking ofhimthat way. But I shouldn’t, I know that today of all days especially. Having the letter I wrote him returned to me is message enough that I should move on.

And maybehecan help me do that. Maybe not. Who knows? But after seeing thatReturn to senderstamp on the envelope I’d addressed to Fletcher, I’m open to seeing if he can.

Owen stumbles backward from the force of my protector’s shove and snarls as he finds his footing.

“Holden,” he growls, staring down the man acting as my shield with pure hatred in his eyes. It makes my gut churn, though I know it’s no longer me who’s in danger. Still, I want to run away. But something keeps me rooted to the ground. I want to be here ifhe—no,Holden—needs me.

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