He had made his way home in a flash, driving like a man intent on sharing his newfound revelation. Now, he towered over her freshly showered body, relishing the scent of his shampoo in her hair. He resisted the urge to finger-comb it. They were in his living room. An empty house, except for the two of them. Too bad he missed another shower with her.

“This could be complicated.” He rubbed a few dark strands of her wet hair between his fingers. “It feels complicated. It feels like something, and, doll, I’m not used to anything.”

He broke from her, scrubbed his hands over his cheeks, hoping to push away the sinking dread. He was saying the wrong things. Mia remained mum, and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Without his conscious permission, his hands found her tresses again. “I’m sorry I had to drag you into this. Into my home. Into my family.”

“It’s not that I dislike being here.” She tried to brush his hands from her hair, but it was no use. He couldn’t keep his hands off her.

“Oh, it’s not, huh?” He laughed, cupping her chin in his hand. “Tell me then, Miss Psychologist. Where does all your anxiety stem from?” And tell me the root of mine while you’re at it.

“From places you don’t want to know. Places I don’t want to share.”

“Why not? You know things about me. All my shit. You know all about Clara and how she came into my life. You know my biggest fear is an inability to protect my family. That my career could somehow hurt Clara one day.” He took a breath. He sounded like a chick. “I showed you mine. What about yours?”

“Truth?” she asked, dripping in hesitation.

“You want to stop now?”

“Well, no.” A grandfather clock shook the room. Tic. Tic. Toc. “I don’t do family…”

“You’ve established that.”

“Because, well, it’d be better if I showed you. Look at this beauty.” She turned, dropped the waistband of her pants, and pointed to an old scar on her bottom.

His eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. Were those scars? How did I not see that? She’d been below him and in front of him, but never bottom up. One line after another. They were definitely scars. Smooth and faded but very much there.

She lifted her chin, took his angry fist, unfolded his fingers, and traced a narrow line. “And over here. They’re cuts. Slices. Deep reminders in my flesh as to where I came from and what I need to avoid.”

He stood furious and mute, not knowing where to take his line of questioning. Kind words and coherent thoughts evaded him. It was his turn to go silent, despite the storm that thrashed inside his chest. He’d kill the motherfucker.

“And I have marks on the back of my legs, real high up. Right under my butt. Thicker. Wider.”