Page 27 of Beautiful Beast

There is no outward reaction except for a slight tilt of her head while her gaze focuses on my biggest insecurity.

A horrible, hideous, and vile scar slicing jaggedly from my cheekbone to my chin.

I’ve only seen it a couple of times because I can’t stand the sight of it. Surely a pretty young thing like her won’t be able to tolerate it either.

She lets the bandana fall from her grip down to the floor, and reaches a hand up to very gently run her fingertip along the angry, red, and raised flesh, making me jerk with surprise.

“This just happened, didn’t it?” she whispers.

My breath is lodged in my throat right along with my heart, so I just nod.

“Does it hurt?”

Another nod, but I don’t elaborate. It’s not just the actual scar that hurts. It’s the limited range of the muscles in my face that affects how much I can comfortably move my mouth.

That’s how it goes when you have to be fixed up in the field or die.

The worst part is that the before and after photos I’ve seen of repairing scars like mine aren’t especially promising.

Even the top doctors in the world can only do so much to erase the evidence of horrific injuries.

But anything has to be better than what I’m living with now.

Hope is all that’s keeping me going.

There’s a moment when I consider kissing Belle. We’re just staring into each other’s eyes, and time slows to a crawl. I don’t know if it’s been fifteen seconds or fifteen minutes, but I’m not ready for this shockingly intimate bubble to burst.

Looking at her and soaking each other in is the strangest sense of connection I’ve ever experienced.

Kissing her would intensify it and let me bask in her beauty a while longer.

“How did it happen?” Belle’s voice is mostly breath, but we’re so close together that I hear her perfectly.

“A bomb.”

It’s the second time I’ve evaded telling the complete story today, and I’m sure it’s a question that I’ll continually be asked – and avoid.

“Didn’t you leave the military?”

Apparently, little Miss Sleuth had quite a wild adventure googling me.

“Yes.”

“There aren’t a whole lot of bombs in New York City.”

“Agreed. I was in Syria.”

She tilts her head again, either inviting me to say more or to kiss her. Since the latter would only happen in my dreams, I figure she must want what most women do – more words.

They’re words I’m not prepared to give, and she must realize it.

But when she drops her hand from my face, she doesn’t just return it to her side. Instead, she trails it down my chest, across my abs, and along my hip before sticking it out in front of her.

“Can we properly meet now without you being such a raging dick?” Belle asks sweetly.

She’s treating me exactly the same way that she did before she saw what I was hiding, which is so far from the realm of anything I thought possible.

“I’m Belle,” she continues, wiggling her hand to remind me of proper social etiquette. “I live downstairs, at least for now, so we’ll be neighbors for a bit.”

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