My eyes moved down to his awaiting arms, and I had to yank hard on the reins to hold still. I pictured the two of us moving together, his hands on my waist, our faces a breath away…
“No,” I choked out, retreating a step. “Thank you, but, uh, I’ll—I’m fine.”
He nodded and dropped his hands, and for several painful moments that stretched on like hours, the two of us stood side by side, shuffling our weight and saying nothing.
Luther stared at the dungeon entrance, awaiting Taran and Alixe’s arrival at any moment. With his attention elsewhere—a rarity in my presence—my eyes found themselves scouring his body and taking him in.
Fine. I could admit it. I was attracted to him. His muscled physique, his stone-carved features, his brooding stare, that endearing smile he only shared with me. Every last feature, even his scar—gods, especially the scar—seemed hand-selected for maximum effect.
But he was a Descended. They were all attractive. Even the ones I despised were so beautiful I sometimes found it hard to look away.
That’s all that this was: Lust. Physical attraction. Primal, biological urges. Just my body’s natural reaction to being thrust into close proximity to so many gorgeous people.
Then why does flirting with Aemonn or Taran feel harmless, but one glance from Luther and I’m swimming in shark-infested waters with a bucket of bloody chum?
My skin flushed despite the damp cold of the dungeon. I pulled at the low neckline of my tunic, fluttering the fabric to force a breeze over the beads of sweat forming along my neck.
The movement caught Luther’s attention, and his focus drifted to my collarbone. “Did you mean what you said last night about scars?”
My mind replayed the dinner conversation.
And if Luther were my King…
I cleared my throat. “Which part, specifically?”
“You don’t believe we should have our scars healed away?”
“Of course I don’t.” My expression soured at the reminder of Iléana’s nasty words. The thought of Luther without his scar tore at something in my heart. “They would have to hold me down kicking and screaming to remove mine.”
The corner of his lip quirked, and I got the sense he was picturing that very image.
My fingers ran over the mark near my throat, the one Luther’s eyes kept darting to when he thought I wasn’t looking. “My scars make me happy. They’re all memories.”
“Aren’t they unhappy memories of being hurt?”
I shrugged. “Not anymore. Time has a way of erasing the pain and leaving behind the laughter.”
He frowned, flexing his jaw. Something was clearly gnawing at him. “You have other scars?”
I snorted. “I’m covered in them. I grew up playing in the forest and getting into fights. There’s hardly an inch of me I haven’t scraped up in some way.”
“Why am I not surprised,” he said wryly.
I lifted my tunic to show a puckered line along my hip. “Teller and I decided we were too grown up to use wooden sparring swords, and we tried to fight with Father’s blades.” His eyes flared wide, and I grinned. “We only made that mistake once.”
I pulled the shirt off over my head, my breasts still covered by a thick bandeau, and turned my back to him as I pointed to my shoulder blade. “I challenged the boys in my class to a race. I was about to win, and one of them tried to trip me, so I tackled him and landed on a broken bottle.” I looked over my shoulder and beamed proudly. “Worth it.”
Luther’s posture had stiffened, his focus fixed on the shirt in my hands.
I rolled my eyes at his sudden modesty. “It’s just skin. You’ve seen me in much less, remember?”
His glittering eyes shot to mine. “Impossible to forget.”
I fought hard against a rising blush and turned to face him, pointing to a patch of pink high on my ribcage—“bucked off a horse”—then scrunching my pant leg to reveal a crooked line across my shin—“rusted chain that caught me while swimming.”
Luther took a few steps closer. His hands twitched, as if he was dying to reach out and touch them all for himself. I wondered if he’d ever even known another adult with a scar, or if he’d always been the lone drop of ink in a sea of milk. If so, it made his choice to keep his scars all the more impressive.
And all the more curious.
I held my forearm out to him, offering up the shiny trail of reddened skin that curved to my elbow.
I held my breath as he took my arm. His thumb grazed the line, tracing its path. A mix of wonder and dismay churned behind his eyes. “You got all these injuries before your healing abilities manifested?”
I nodded. “This must have been the last one. I tricked a boy who was bullying Teller into falling in some mud and embarrassed him in front of our school. He and his friends came back for revenge.” I winced as I remembered how they had ambushed me on my walk home and beaten me bloody. “Never underestimate a violent male with a hurt ego.”
Luther’s fingers tightened around my forearm, the movement faintly tugging me closer. His voice went low and gravelly. “Let me find him. I’ll return the favor.”
I huffed a laugh, trying to concentrate through the crackling current running straight from his touch to my pounding heart. “He’s long gone. He joined the Emarion Army. He’s in Fortos now.”
“I don’t care if he’s in the afterlife. If he hurt you, I’ll find a way to make him pay.”
My stomach fluttered. My focus caught on his scar where it disappeared beneath his jacket. “Is that your only one?”
He nodded. “You have me beat on number, but I think I’ve got you on size.”
I broke into a mischievous grin. “It’s not the size that matters Luther, it’s what you can do with it.”
He groaned and lifted his eyes to the ceiling, though my pulse spiked as his grip on me tightened. “No wonder Taran likes you so much.”
“Well?” I prodded, inclining my head toward his scar. “I showed you mine.”
He hesitated a long moment, then released my arm. I didn’t miss the way his fingers stumbled over the buttons of his jacket as he disrobed, or the way the muscles around his neck seemed so tight they might snap, or the way his gaze jumped around the room, taking in everything but me.
It was clear enough he wasn’t thrilled about revealing his scar, and I considered waving it off and ending his misery. But something inside me insisted this moment was vital—that this was a side of him I needed to see, and more importantly, a side of himself Luther needed to feel seen.
Though I promised myself I wouldn’t react or give him any reason to believe he’d been right to hide it away, when his clothes fell, all the breath punched from my lungs.
The scar on his face was nothing compared to the gruesome evidence covering his chest. The cruel slash that cut from his throat to his hipbone was at least an inch wide along the center line, with countless jagged tributaries that webbed across his torso.
Even as a healer, I had never seen anything like it. It was as if a bolt of lightning had exploded from within him and shredded his skin to tatters. The glossy lines were mottled in shades of pink and white, rippled along the edges where the scar interrupted his smooth olive skin.