Page 68 of His Property

I nuzzle in close and trail a path over his chest with my nail. “You’re sexy shirtless. You shouldn’t be so self-conscious.”

“You make me sound like a two-incher in a middle school locker room.”

I laugh and trace one of Victor’s abs. “I’m serious.”

“I know… I’m not a fan of my scars. I don’t like the way people react to them sometimes.”

I move my eyes from his abs to his face. “How do people react to them?”

He shrugs. “You know. Pity, curiosity, sometimes disgust. It’s easier to keep my shirt on.”

“I get it.” I kiss his shoulder and tuck myself into his arm before looking up at the bars running over the canopy. The spreader bar my ankles were attached to a half hour earlier dangles by chains several feet above my head.

“Thank you for not asking about them,” he says, shifting his arm.

I stay silent for several moments while I stare at the bar and try not to picture Victor being used as an ashtray. “I think I get the gist.”

Victor kisses my head, and I roll onto my side and hug him. We stay wrapped in each other’s arms for several minutes, and tension grows with each passing second. The mention of his scars coupled with the events of the evening make it difficult to ignore the elephant in the room, but I keep my mouth shut and respect his privacy. I care about Victor’s past, but I don’t need to know. It wouldn’t affect the present.

“I killed him,” Victor says.

I tense against him and try not to otherwise react. I’m speechless that he’d admit something, anything to me.

“My dad, I mean. I killed him.”

I slowly pull away to look Victor in the eyes, trying to keep my face as neutral as possible. I think about asking the obvious ‘why, when, and how’ questions, but I will myself to be patient and let him tell me.

“Okay,” I say, simply.

His eyes narrow. “Okay?”

My mouth opens and closes, and I sit up when he pulls away and drags himself up to rest against the headboard. I tuck my feet beneath me while facing him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He glances at me then stares blankly at the wall. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t change anything for me,” I say, putting my hand on his knee. “If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be. If your old man was anything like your mom, I’m sure the world is a better place without him.”

Victor shakes his head. “He was nothing like my mom.”

I bite my lip and run my finger over a burn mark on Victor’s leg. “Did he give you these?”

Victor shakes his head again, and it feels like there’s less air in the room. I struggle to get a full breath but keep my attempts quiet so Victor doesn’t realize how uncomfortable I am talking about this.

IknowVictor does bad things. I know. I just don’t need the details.

But I think he needs to say this more than I need to not hear it.

“Tell me about it then. What happened?”

He moves his eyes to me, and I almost flinch at the anger in the blazing hazel. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean nothing. He was a drunk who came home every day and passed out on the couch. He was fucking useless, and I couldn’t stand to look at him.”

“My mom is the one who gave me these,” he says, looking down at his stomach and brushing his hand along a circular scar. “She used to burn me with her cigarette when I didn’t behave. Or beat me with a cord or belt, or lock me in an ottoman she kept in her bedroom, whatever.”

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