Page 5 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Damn, the needles are done shredding my insides and now a boulder is crushing my lungs. Smothered in snow, stabbed to death, and smashed by earth. What a great fucking feeling. The same one I've been hauling around since the Marines. Since Wunmi, then Hawaii. Since every moment I've failed at the one thing I'm supposed to be good at: keeping people safe.

Declan is about to say something, his blue eyes sparkling more than I've ever seen them—all Sienna's doing—so I turn back to the painting, desperate for a mental distraction from this uncomfortable shame.

My voice comes out too loud in the hushed gallery. "You really did an amazing job capturing—"

"Shh!" Sienna cuts me off with a hiss, glancing around nervously. She steps closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Keep it hush-hush, remember? No one knows I'm the… you know."

I nod, remembering too late. "Right. Sorry."

It's easy to forget that Sienna's become something of an art world enigma this past year. After everything that happened with her ex, Anthony, she decided to create her art under various pseudonyms, selling pieces in galleries across the world. A ghost artist with collectors scrambling to connect the dots. Smart move.

"I wish the world knew how truly amazing my wife is," Declan says, his voice softened with pride as he pulls her close. "But she insists on keeping it a secret. Stubborn woman."

"Says my stubborn husband," she shoots back, smiling up at him like he made the sun rise just for her.

He presses a kiss to her temple, and she melts into him like they're two pieces of the same puzzle. The way they look at each other, like they've found the answer to a question I haven't even figured out how to ask, captures my complete attention for a beat.

That familiar emptiness expands in my chest. I'm the third wheel. The outsider. The guy who's spent the last year running from country to country, devouring self-help and science and all kind of books like usual, while avoiding the fact he has no fucking idea what he's looking for.

All I know is what I'm avoiding.

I run my tongue over my cracked lips, all the cracks in my life suddenly exposed. It's kind of hot in here. Stuffy. I rock on my heels as restless energy crawls under my skin.

"Do you have a favorite?" I ask Sienna, nodding toward the collection of paintings around us.

She smiles with that genuine warmth that makes everyone feel important. "All my favorites are at home. What about you? Do you have a favorite? I want to know what speaks to you."

"What speaks to me, huh? What a very artist thing to say."

She laughs and links her arm with Declan's. "Come on. Show me."

They're both waiting, so I shrug and pick a direction. I wander through the space and the eclectic people while Sienna and Declan trail behind. Through my peripherals, I notice how Declan is still limping; he might have that limp the rest of his life.

When we went to rescue Sienna, Anthony got the jump on me and knocked me out. While I was swimming in darkness, Declan was shot and stabbed in the same leg.

My stomach twists again and I worry the guilt might make me puke. Though knowing this crowd, they'd probably rope it off and put up a little placard: 'Guilt and Bile, Mixed Media.' A commentary on the human condition.

My combat boots echo with each step. The crowd parts without me saying a word—something about the way I move, I guess. Or maybe they can smell the outsider on me.

I stop in front of a painting that snags my attention like a hook in the chest. It's a window painted off-center on the canvas. That's all it is, really. The outside world is vibrant, alive with color and light, but everything inside the room is shades of gray. Muted. Distant. Like watching life happen through bulletproof glass.

Freedom lost.

Something in it resonates with the hollow space behind my ribs.

"How much?" I hear myself ask before I've fully processed the thought.

Sienna laughs softly, then leans close to say, "What are you talking about? You can have it as a gift."

"That's not how this works." I shake my head. "I'm not taking charity. Theartist, whoever mysterious person that may be, deserves to be compensated for their time and vision."

Declan raises an eyebrow in interest, ever the businessman even if he wears fuckingjeansnow. "Five hundred thousand."

I nearly choke on the acid still in my throat. "Five hundred—are you serious?"

"Thought you were in the one percent now?" Declan chuckles, those fine lines around his eyes dancing like they're laughing at me too.

When we last spoke over video chat, I made a joke about being one of the big dogs now—a rich guy—thanks to the ten million Declan paid me last year to help him rescue Sienna. It was ten million I didn't actually want. I was the idiot who fucked up, so of course I was going to fix it myself, even if I died trying.

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