Page 27 of Master of Games
Nights spent together. Walks. Conversations…
But that was her version of marriage. What was his? Marrying him did not promise any actual change on his part. What if he still intended to go around seducing debutantes?
He said he’d given that up, but what if it was all a lie?
Her chest ached.
And what if, when he saw the extent of her burns, he decided she’d been right all along and they were too much?
That was a question that could be answered any time. It did not require marriage. At least not for her. The rules could be damned.
“Caden?”
“Yes, kitten?”
“Did I wake you?” she asked turning to look back at him.
He quirked a half smile. “I never fell asleep.”
“Why?” she gasped turning in his arms.
“Your mind is exceptionally loud,” he gave a low chuckle. “I can practically hear it turning.”
She nipped at her lip, giving a nervous giggle. “I didn’t realize thoughts could be heard without speaking.”
“Your body is vibrating with tension. Why don’t you tell me why.”
“Ah,” she looked away then, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About getting over my fears.”
“And?”
“I guess it bothers me because I don’t usually let fear hold me back.”
“I know you don’t, Tabbie. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “And the fact that you’re afraid is a testament to other people’s cruelty, not your strength.”
Maybe that was true. But it didn’t change what she had to do. “I’ve decided you’re right.”
“About marriage?”
“About showing you my scars.” She drew in a ragged breath. She never wanted to be in this moment. She hardly even allowed the staff to see her body, bathing herself and dressing in her first layers before the maid attended her.
He gently turned her face toward his, his lips dropping over hers in a light, tender kiss. “You’re not frightening me away, I promise.”
“Why not?” She looked into his eyes, knowing his reaction was important. “Why would you want me when you could have the most perfect woman in the world?”
He drew in a breath, snorting softly. “Who says you’re not perfect?”
“I’m not,” she cried back. “Scars are by definition, imperfections.”
His hand slid down her neck, over her arm to her waist where he pulled their bodies tighter together. “Everyone has scars and no one is perfect. Do I wish to sacrifice character for outer beauty? I know you think me vapid, which is likely deserved, but I can assure you, I choose you.”
She’d like to believe him, but there was a part of her that just couldn’t. How could he like the sight of her body when she found her own skin hideous?
But she was tired of being afraid.
She had no idea what might come after she showed him. Would it be worse than not knowing?
Was she ready for this?
