Page 69 of Konstantin
Her fingers tenderly trail over the raised scars etched into my back. Like I’m something fragile. Like I could break.
The thought is laughable, but I’m strangely enjoying it. Because for the first time, I want someone to see what’s beneath the monsterand stay.
But I don’t know how much to tell her, how much of myself to reveal. The more you give to someone else, the weaker you become—or at least that’s what my father taught me. A long time ago.
“I was a boy. Around ten when I got my first scar.”
“Who did that to you?” Her gaze drips in anger.
And I find myself smiling, because I can’t remember the last time someone gave a damn.
Her fingertips trace another scar at the center of my back, gentler now. Like she senses something heavier is coming. Something ugly. Something far too broken to ever fix.
I exhale slow, the memories pushing against my lungs.
“My father,” I tell her, confessing something I haven’t told anyone. Never had a reason to.
She stills. “Your father gave you those scars?”
I nod once. “He believed pain builds men. That beating it into us every day would carve out the weakness…until we stopped crying.”
“Jesus Christ.” She shakes her head, letting out a heavy exhale as I continue.
“He was obsessed with shaping perfect heirs. Soldiers. Kings. He used to lock us in the cold cellar for days. Barely any food. No light. He’d pit us against each other in fights. Tests of strength, he’d call them. Over time, we stopped crying, stopped feeling.”
My gaze finds hers, my hand cupping her cheek. “Or maybe I just convinced myself I did.”
“I understand.” She curls against me, her palm sliding over my chest like she wants to protect something already shattered.
I stiffen at the tenderness.
“Don’t,” I say roughly. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
Her brows pull together. “I don’t.”
“Good. Because I don’t hate him. Not for that. That was nothing compared to what he did when I loved someone.”
She drags her head back, staring intently.
“My father liked to kill things.” My knuckles drift across her jaw, my gaze following my movement.
“Liked…as in, he’s dead?”
I nod. “He’d say fear and love make you weak. That enemies see it and use it against you. That when you love someone, they will destroy you. Or be destroyed because of you.”
Her features twist and tighten like she’s bracing for the worst of it.
“At the time, I didn’t want to be like him. I was young. Hopeful. I wanted…love. What kid doesn’t? And after my mother died when I was eight, I craved it until he carved it out of me.”
Tessa sits up slightly, waiting for the rest of it like it’s about to punch through her rib cage.
“I met a girl named Katya back in school when I was sixteen. She was sweet. Looked at me like I was more than a weapon. Like I mattered. When he found out I cared for her, he made sure I’d never make that mistake again.” My voice flattens, becomes something hollow as the memories take hold. “He caught us one night. I snuck out to meet her at her parents’ farm, and he was already there…waiting. He brought us both back to my house.”
Tessa’s lips part, but no sound comes.
“She cried. Begged for him to let her go. But I knew if I asked, he’d just make it hurt worse. So I said nothing as he slit her throat in front of me.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers, cupping her mouth.
