Page 105 of Corpse Roads

“Answer me,” he demands, his fingers wrapping around a hardened nipple. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Promise,” I moan in pleasure.

Kneading my breast with one hand, he traces the seam of my jeans, reaching the button. My pulse skips as he unzips them and begins to ease the fabric over my hips.

That’s when I freak out.

Bolting upright so fast, I gasp at the pain lancing through my ribs, I shove his hands away from me. Terror is constricting my lungs.

“I can’t… I…”

“Shit,” Hunter curses, his face pale. “This was a bad idea.”

“No!” I rush to explain. “It’s not you. I… well, it’s hard to explain. I don’t want to scare you with what’s underneath.”

Hunter rolls onto his side and tugs me against his chest. I nuzzle into his neck, revelling in the closeness I’ve wanted for so long. If he sees my scars, he’ll run away screaming. That would kill me.

“Harlow, I know what’s underneath.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“The police took pictures while you were unconscious in the hospital. I saw everything before we even met.”

Clinging shame settles over me. I feel physically sick. Shuddering, I try to pull away, but his arms band around me.

“Don’t you dare hide from me. I won’t take that shit. You have nothing at all to be ashamed of.”

Stupid, embarrassed tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I can’t believe he’s seen the real me, and yet, he’s still here. Any sane person would’ve run away screaming by now.

“I look disgusting,” I whisper through my tears. “The scars… they’re everywhere. I don’t want you to see me like that.”

Hunter holds me tight and starts kissing the tears away, one at a time. Not a single droplet escapes his attention.

“Let me see,” he murmurs.

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

I’m desperate to feel whole again. All I want is a moment, a glimpse. I can settle for being someone else tonight. A person worthy of his care and attention.

Gently unfastening the Velcro sling holding my plastered arm in place, he sets it aside and kisses my fingertips, halting at the edge of my cast. The sweater is pulled off, inch by inch, as I hold my breath. He won’t let me cower or hide, holding eye contact the whole time.

My jeans are stripped off next, unveiling every gnarly inch of skin I’m so desperate to hide. I lie there in my plain white panties, wearing a mosaic of bruises across my ribs. The doctor said I could stop using the wrap now.

I know what I look like.

It’s an ugly sight.

Intricate scarring covers most of my thin torso. Scars stretch down from the underside of my breasts, over my ribcage, and across the entirety of my stomach.

It begins with a perfect circle above my belly button, sliced deep enough to leave horrendous marks, even now. The knife lines branch out into three curved domes, connected by a central triangle.

The Holy Trinity.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

I should have died that night. It was before Pastor Michaels perfected his ritual. He came at me in a state of animalistic blood lust, tired of coaxing my compliance with scraps of food and beatings.

---