When you spend your entire life listening to everyone tell you how “beautiful” and “perfect” you are, the last thing you want is to disappoint them with the truth.

Ever has been nothing but honest with me, and he deserves the same courtesy.

So I lift the hems of my robe and shift, exposing the cut on the back of my calf. It’s a bit deeper than I thought, and my hose are shredded to bits.

Everett kneels in the dirt, his eyes lifting to where I wait, teeth pinning my lower lip and my breath stalled in my lungs. “May I remove your stocking?” he asks with a slight tremble in his voice.

All I can do is nod.

His hands graze up my calves, but before he reaches the top, his movements falter. I watch his brow furrow and then realization dawn as his eyes widen. “What happened to your legs?”

Only those closest to me know this shameful secret. And now Ever is one of them. “When I was five, there was a fire in our home. My father and brother were camping in our back garden, so they weren’t inside at the time.” They used to love sleeping under the stars. “My mother fell asleep putting me to bed in the loft. By the time we woke, there was no way out. She threw herself on top of me, saving me and sacrificing herself.”

By some miracle, I made it out alive.

My mother did not.

“The burns were so deep, not even the water in the well could heal them properly.” Leaving behind mottled, dimpled skin from my feet up to my thighs.

Ever stares up at me, a myriad of emotions playing on his handsome face. I wait for the disgust to settle in, but it never does.

Instead, he peels down my stocking and presses a tender kiss to my hideous knee. “In my world, scars are worn with pride. They are a testament to a fae’s strength and resilience.”

If only that were true on this side of The Divide. “In my world, they’re just ugly.”

“Nothing about you could ever be ugly.”

He doesn’t realize how much those words mean to me. How much I needed to hear them.

Tears slip silently down my cheeks as Ever withdraws the small flask from his pocket and twists open the lid. He pours water over the small wounds until all that remains is the stain of blood on my stocking.

Ever’s fingers curve around my calf, his thumbs making idle sweeps, as if memorizing each hideous dimple. “Do they still pain you?”

“Only when I’m idle for too long.” That’s why Wednesdays are so difficult. When my legs start to burn, walking is the only relief.