Page 78 of The Shape of my Scar
“Famous last words.”
He reached out and gently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Something had changed between them against her will to remain separate. Like a healing touch curling around old wounds like vines around old brick.
And for once, she didn’t push it away.
Chapter 37
There were good days and bad days.
And then there were days where rock bottom hit and hurt like a bitch.
Today was one of those days.
Faolan hadn’t spoken since breakfast, not that she’d eaten much. The soup sat cooling on the tray, barely touched, and her eyes kept drifting, unfocused, to the window where the early winter light filtered through slate-grey clouds.
She looked…hollowed out. Like she had gone to sleep and never really woke up.
Thane watched from the corner of the room, leaning against the kitchen counter like a man physically restraining himself from stepping in too soon. His eyes hadn’t left her for more than a few seconds since she’d woken with a ragged breath and that look again. The one that said she’d rather disappear into the floorboards than be here, stitched back together and aching. That the nightmares were back and she didn’t want to wake up.
Thane knew the feeling all too well. She was like his mirror.
She reached for the water with a shaking hand.
Silently, smoothly, he walked over and brought glass to her lips. She didn’t look at him, but she drank.
The tray was gone a minute later, replaced with a protein shake and a heated pillow tucked behind her lower back. He adjusted her pillows while she glared at the wall and pretended he wasn’t there next to her, sharing his warmth and breathing her shredded air.
“Your shoulder’s locked up again,” he said quietly, already kneeling to rub circles against her stiff muscle. “You didn’t stretch this morning.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” he replied as he gently manipulated the joint. His voice was a low, husky whisper. “Breathe through it.”
His fingers were steady, working out the knots with insistent care like he had watched Frida work on her. She hissed once but didn’t tell him to stop.
When she flinched, he immediately eased off.
He came around and cupped her face to meet his eyes. “Your pain is mine. I understand in ways no one else can. You are inside me, just as I am inside you.”
Looking into his intense eyes felt like looking at the sun. Almost too bright, almost too painful, like an exposed nerve.
He just knew her inside out.
When the pain ebbed and her eyes finally closed, he rose, walked out of the kitchen, and returned with a blanket that smelled faintly of soap and the dryer. He crouched, covered her legs again, and tucked it around her feet the way she’d never had anyone do for her.
Her eyes opened again, glassy and tired. “You fuss like an old woman.”
He tilted his head slightly, like he was debating something. And then, without warning, his arms went under her.
She let out a startled yelp. “What the fuck are you doing?!”
He didn’t respond. Just lifted her like she weighed nothing, like she was all air and precious cargo he wouldn’t dare drop.
He crossed the room, sat down on the plush sofa, and pulled her into his lap. Her body, limp with fatigue and painkillers, folded easily against him. Her face ended up squished awkwardly against his neck, her legs pulled in close, her arm cushioned carefully.
Swaddled like a baby.
