His hands pause and he looks up at me. “For what?” he asks as he goes back to his task.

“The thing I broke. I’ll go clean up the glass and replace them.”

“I don’t care about the stupid figurines, Brooke.”

I do not even flinch when he pours peroxide on it.

“How did he do it?” Landon asks.

“Excuse me?”

Landon’s gaze meets mine and holds as he says, “How did your dad give you that scar?”

I look over his shoulder and shrug.

He turns my face to meet his eyes. “Tell me,” he says gently.”

I can feel my throat close. “What makes you think he did?”

“Brooke, you had a panic attack when I mentioned going to see him on our walk the other day. You apologize constantly for the tiniest things. You hunch your small frame, trying to look smaller than you already are when I introduce you to men you do not know. You’re quiet and skittish when you are not sure of a situation. So tell me how that bastard gave you that scar.”

“He…he was angry at me for burning the dinner. Arnold was there for dinner, and he kept complaining about how overcooked his steak was. My dad yelled at me for embarrassing him in front of his guest. Arnold’s suggested I needed to learn a lesson on how to properly feed a man. He kept saying how worthless I was. How no man would ever want me, and I was to be a burden for my dad for the rest of my life. Told my dad how sorry he was that he had to put up with me. His words only made my dad angrier. He hit me first, knocking me down. I knew better than to get up, to stand defiantly. It was better when I cowered. But Arnold grabbed my hair and pulled me to my feet, throwing me across the table. He tore my shirt open, and Dad grabbed his steak knife. It was as if they planned it. Arnold held me down, trapping my legs with his body and pinning my shoulders—”

I cut off after that. Tears streak down my face. I want to sob, to curl up on the bed, and pretend the world did not exist.

“It’s okay, Beagchaithnini sneachta.” Landon brushes away my tears. He has sat on the bed sometime during my story, his hands fisted in anger. “He can’t hurt you anymore, I promise.”

He kisses my forehead. My cheek. My nose. I think he is just trying to keep me calm, to avoid another panic attack. Whatever the reason, I do not want him to stop kissing me.

When his lips finally touch mine, it is gentle, not filled with the heated passion it had when we were downstairs. But it is still good; still left my head spinning, intoxicated by his taste. He pushes me back against the bed, dragging kisses down my neck, his body covering mine. When he pulls my shirt up, I help him take it off me. I am so raw with emotion, and his kisses keep traveling lower—across my breasts, below them, above my belly button. I know where he is headed, and I want more than anything for him to keep going. He has never given me this kind of attention before, never explored in the day, without the assistance of alcohol.