Page 63 of Seven Nights

One hand clutching the scissors,I stare at Griffin’s back. The ceiling light is on. There are no shadows for him to hide within, no blindfold for him to hide in front of.

Tanned and lightly freckled, the broad expanse of skin is unblemished, but I already knew this. I saw him naked from the waist up during our negotiations in his office. I have seen his cock and the forward thrust of his hips. I’ve seen the front of his powerful thighs. I’ve seen his shins and calves.

Drawing the scissors to my chest, I try to calm my nerves. I feel like I already know the nature of what I will find. My first clue came on the day I walked away from our contract. Stoned out of my mind from what he’d done to my body, I told Griffin that I had watched him like he watched me, that I “saw” him. That was when he retreated to the big, sunny room in what is an otherwise closed wing of the house.

“I’m afraid I might cut you,” I whisper.

It’s the truth, but I’m afraid of much more than that. I’m afraid I will react badly—not even badly, just in a way he cannot accept. If I do, he might push me away again.

“You won’t, love.”

“Can I start where I want?” I ask.

He nods, then tells me, “Start where you need to.”

I feel the fool, but I take a few long breaths before I pinch some of the fabric at the back of one knee and remove a small slice of the material. I spread the blades, move to slip the tip of one into the hole but pull back because of the way the instrument bounces in my hand.

“You can put a finger beneath it until your hand is steady,” he says. “And, if you poke me anyway, I won’t bleed out—well, I probably won’t.”

There is a tease to his voice, but there is strain there as well. I can try to guess why, but the strain will only grow the longer I delay.

Adopting his suggestion, I slide my index finger and the bottom tip of the blade into the hole. The scissors are frighteningly sharp. It takes only a little forward pressure and the bottom blade slices through the fabric.

I am too busy tracking the tip’s direction to look at the skin my progress reveals. Too busy—or too determined to prolong the moment before I see what Griffin has been hiding from me both in the bedroom and in our conversations.

Nearing the top of the pants, I stop. My gaze moves to the other knee. I cut a second hole and repeat the long upward slice over the back of his thighs and the curve of his muscular ass.

Still, I don’t look. I feel like a coward, feel like he was right to hide from me.

I make one last, long cut, a horizontal slice that connects the two earlier cuts. Leaving the material in place, I put the scissors aside. I look at his face, the muscles tight, and then at his stiff shoulders and spine.

Pinching the top corners of the cutout, I peel the fabric down. Seeing the first thin strip of white through the tan skin, I hesitate and suck a breath in. I resume the unveiling and don’t stop until the panel is all the way down.

There are too many scars to count and more hiding behind the remains of his pajama pants. The marks are thin and white, probably more than a decade old. The stark violence that wrought them has faded on the skin. Most are about a finger in length, their width maybe that of two toothpicks placed side by side.

“A belt buckle?” I softly ask.

His throat bobs, but then he answers clearly.

“Yes.”

I brush the back of my knuckles over the flesh. It is a caress I’m not sure he welcomes.

I can only think of one person who could have done this. Griffin’s father was among the most powerful men in America. Who would dare touch such a man’s son?

And with such rage!

I want to cry, but I fear that will count as a bad reaction, a reason for him to turn away, to push me out.

“Your father?” I ask, my voice the same low, even tone despite how much I am shaking inside.

“Few else would dare,” he says. A second passes and then he completes the answer. “Yes. The one and only time I interfered in my parents’ fighting.”

I reach for the scissors, but pause.

“Can I finish?”

“Yes,” he scratches out, followed by, “please.”

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