Blood covered his hands and ran down his legs to drip onto the tile.

Had an assassin broken in and hurt him? That thought terrified her.

Ignoring her ankle, she rushed to him. “Darling?”

He tightened his hands over his head, but refused to look at her.

That only scared her more. “Honey, what’s wrong? Where are you wounded?”

“I’m not wounded,” he snarled in rabid anger.

She touched the hands he had laced on top of his bent head. “I don’t understand. What happened?”

When he finally lifted his head, her breath caught in her throat. But it was the bitter rage in his eyes that tore through her.

His left cheek was bleeding profusely.

He curled his lip. “I can’t even shave for the fucking scars. I keep nicking them.”

Completely confused, she tried to understand. “Why were you trying to shave?”

He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I didn’t want to irritate your beautiful skin.”

Her heart wrenched at those sincere words, at the tenderness in his voice. He’d hurt himself attempting to protect her. That, and for many, many other reasons, was why she loved him so.

She picked his hand up from her shoulder and kissed it. “You didn’t have to shave for me.”

Rage flared in his eyes before he banged his head against the wall so hard, she was surprised he didn’t break through the slate tiles. “I’m so fucking useless. What kind of man can’t even shave his own face?”

The agony in his damaged voice made her eyes water as her heart broke even more. She cupped his face in her hands. “You’re not useless. Damn it! Grow a beard to your knees for all I care. It doesn’t hurt me.”

But the problem was, it hurt him and that was unbearable to her.

He scowled. “How can you even stand to look at me like this? I’m revolting.”

“No, you’re not. And it’s not a hardship by any means. I think you’re gorgeous.”

He scoffed. “Bullshit. You think I don’t know what’ll happen if I show this”—he scraped his hand angrily against his bleeding cheek—“in public? I already went through this once. The cringing and grimacing, and the whispering. The sighs and looks of gratitude that they’re not the ones who are scarred. The glares of distaste as people step away from me, or refuse to look at me at all because it turns their stomachs. Having people ask what happened so I can relive it over and over again until I want to scream. I couldn’t stand it the first time, but at least it was only on one side of my face then. So long as my hair stayed in place, no one saw it. This shit”—he gestured at both sides of his face—“I can’t hide.”

Except with the mask that covered everything…

She set her chin down on his knee and looked up at him, wanting desperately to make him feel better. “You know I’d do you.”