“I never hurt myself, but the man who did all of this . . . I did ask him to kill me.” That was all it took to banish the flirty banter between us and sober me up enough to focus on only his pain and suffering.

“Who did this to you? What happened?” I whispered, a shudder rolling through me.

He frowned. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s not a good story. Your distillery lessons are much better.”

“Please.” I nodded for emphasis. I’d do anything to help take away some of his pain, and unless he shared it with me, I’d never be able to help.

He angled his head, scrutinizing me. Not a sobriety check, but a “can she handle the truth” one.

“If, at any point, you need me to stop, say the word.”

“Okay,” I promised, and he pulled his hand away to remove his shirt, revealing his hard, toned body and even more scars.

“The ones you can see aren’t the ones that hurt. The phantom pain comes from what else happened in that room.”

He took my outstretched palm and covered it with his, drawing our hands to his chest.

Eyes closed, he shared, “I was captured by someone, taken as their prisoner.” His chest jutted forward as a harsh, pained sound escaped his lips. “He forced me to watch him hurt people. Mostly women, and I was powerless to help. Strapped down and restrained, I listened to their screams, begging for help. The bastard even had my eyes physically forced open so I couldn’t shut them.” When his glossy eyes met mine, I caught a single tear falling with my thumb.

My body trembled, and my chills magnified.

What he’d said was beyond . . . well, just beyond what anyone, especially such a caring man like him, should ever have to endure.

I unfolded my legs and crawled onto his lap and brought his naked chest flush to mine. I hooked my ankles at his back and held on to him. I’m so sorry felt like a pebble in a very big pond of pain, but I didn’t know what else to say.

He shifted my hair to the side and buried his face at the crook of my shoulder. We stayed like that for a few quiet moments before he continued.