Page 51 of Dirty Mechanic
Fuck. My bruises.
It’s not a question.
I take a step back instinctively, pulling down the hem. “It’s fine. They’re old,” I whisper. “From before.”
His hands wrap around my calves, firm and steady. “They’re not fine. They’re on you.” His voice cracks. “Who did this?”
I don’t answer, because he already knows.
He doesn’t wait for permission. His lips brush one bruise, then another. Not gently. Devoted. Possessive.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his palms trailing up my thighs, grease-smudged hands leaving prints against my skin. “And I want the whole damn valley to know it.”
My breath stutters.
He kisses each mark like he’s trying to erase them. Like love could undo what violence did. Like this—his body, his mouth—is the only redemption left.
“I should’ve protected you,” he says between kisses. “Should’ve gone after him the second I knew.”
“Stop,” I manage. “Please, Derek. Don’t?—”
He looks up, eyes burning. “You don’t get to protect him.”
“I’m not,” I say, voice tight. “I’m trying to protect you.”
His hands move to my waist, anchoring me. “I don’t need protection, Honeycrisp. But you? I’ll burn the world to ash before I let him near you again.”
Tears sting my eyes.
And I don’t stop him when he lifts me, carries me to the front of the car, and sets me on the hood like I weigh nothing.
He unfastens my dress, each button slow, reverent, opening from my chest to my thighs. The cotton slides off my shoulders. I should feel exposed. Instead, I feel seen.
The last light of sunset floods the garage windows, streaking gold across the floor. Dust motes float like fireflies in the beams. Tools line the wall like an audience holding its breath.
He traces my calves, his thumbs nudging my knees apart, coaxing instead of commanding, like a man who knows how to open something sacred.
I forget how to breathe.
His gaze darkens as he sees the bruises again. Violet blooms edged in olive and rose. He doesn’t flinch.
“Annabelle,” he whispers like it’s all that matters.
“I didn’t want you to see them,” I say, trying to shift my legs closed.
He holds them open. Gentle. Unmoving. “Don’t hide from me.”
He kisses each mark slowly, lips trailing up my thighs, lingering where the skin is softest. Where I’m tender in ways no one else has touched. Where I almost forgot what safety felt like.
“I’ll kill him,” he breathes against my skin.
Another kiss. Higher.
“I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”
“Derek—”
“No. Let me do this. Let me love you like you deserve.”
