“Yes.”

Worry ran rampant through her. Maris had told her that Darling didn’t do well under anesthesia. His body barely tolerated it.

“Are you doing this for you or for me? Because you know I don’t care about it at all. I think you’re wonderful just like you are.”

His features stern, he pulled the washcloth from the bar, then turned her around so that he could wash her back. She didn’t know why he liked doing that, but it always felt really good.

He made small circles over her back, then trailed the cloth down her spine. “It’s not for you, Z. I mean… some of it is. I hate that this is what you have to look at when you hold me. I know how awful I appear and I applaud you for not cringing every time you see me. But honestly, I can’t take it anymore. I can’t stand to look at myself. Every time I catch my reflection against anything, I get severely sucker-punched over what I see there.”

Darling swallowed. “Believe me, I know removing the scars won’t fix the rest. I know they’re superficial. My voice and vision will still be screwed up. And the memories will always be there, stabbing me.” He flinched as if one of them hit him just from mentioning it. “But the scars bring it home and kick it down my throat. I’m ready to move forward, and I can’t do that when all I see is a victim every time I look in the mirror.”

She wanted to tell him he wasn’t a victim. That he’d never been a victim, but that wasn’t true and she knew it. The worst tragedy of all was when someone this strong, this capable, was held down and unable to protect himself while others abused and violated him. Like her with this damnable collar on. To know that you were fully capable of protecting yourself and to be unable to do so…

That was its own special kind of hell and it did untold damage to the psyche.

In her mind, she saw the photos Maris had shown her from Darling’s medical report.

Saw the way Darling had looked hanging in front of her that day when she’d thought he’d killed Kere. What had been done to him disgusted her. And she was an outsider to it. He’d been the one who had to endure the true, unvarnished degradation and horror of his torture.

The one who couldn’t even sleep for it.

All she wanted was to heal him.

His breathing ragged from the pain of those memories, he returned the cloth to her hand. He glared at her throat with so much animosity and fury that it actually scared her. She wanted to say something to soothe him, but fear froze her vocal cords.

This wasn’t the man who made love to her for hours on end.

This was the feral warrior, Kere, and by the look on his face, it was obvious he wanted blood.