Page 112 of Bride By Coronation

I scoot closer, sliding my thumb over his hand, insisting, "I know you aren't."

"Do you?" He peers at me closer.

"Yes."

"How?"

I shrug. "I don't know, but my heart tells me you're different."

He releases a deep breath, then continues, "On my eighteenth birthday, my father and uncles took me to one of their whorehouses. They had a new group of women in the house. My father wanted me to help break them in. I refused."

My pulse pounds hard between my ears. Disgust and shock fill me. No matter how much you're warned about something, hearing it again doesn't make it any easier.

Kirill looks away, then confesses, "To punish me for my disobedience, they strung me up by a rope. My father cut my face. My oldest uncle took the knife around my body. My father's youngest brother made hash marks under the parts where I tattooed snakeheads."

Bile flies up my esophagus. I gape at him.

His father and uncles did this to him?

He keeps his head turned toward the window. A tremor runs through his hand.

I squeeze it tighter and put my arm between his back and the headboard.

He continues, "They told me that no woman would ever want me. They said the only way I'd ever have sex again was with one of their whores."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

He slowly meets my gaze with a painful but hardened expression. "That's the quick version. Do you mind if I leave it at that?"

I nod, then rise on my knees and straddle him.

He blinks hard, trying to eliminate his emotions.

I put both hands on his cheeks and kiss him.

For a moment, he doesn't return my affection, then finally does, but he retreats quickly. "Do you have other questions you want answers to right now?"

I start to shake my head but then stop.

"Go on," he orders.

I gather my thoughts and then ask, "In your letter, you said you had flaws. Is that what you think your scars are? Flaws?"

He swallows hard. "Yes. They changed the entire course of my life."

My heart hurts to learn how he got his scars and what he thinks about himself because of them. I assert, "Flaws make us who we are and influence how we deal with things."

He stares at me in silence.

I trace the mark on his cheek again, and he closes his eyes, strumming his hand across my lower back. I add, "They say strong people turn flaws into strengths."

His eyes fly open. Something passes over his expression and then a short chuckle flies out of him.

"What's funny?" I question.

He pins his blues to mine, then reveals, "They say your brother is like him, but they're all wrong."

Confused, I ask, "What do you mean? And who are you talking about?"

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