Page 21 of The Devil’s Feather

He stood and unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves. “You would have seen this eventually.”

My eyes grew until they threatened to pop out of my head. The composer shrugged out of his shirt, revealing a black tank top straining deliciously across huge pecs and the kind of muscle definition in his bared arms that bodybuilders had wet dreams about.

Arms covered from shoulders to wrists in full sleeves of scars I recognized all too well.

“Oh, Rafael,” I breathed.

He tossed the shirt aside. “This is why I fight. It keeps the urge to cut at bay and gives the rage a useful function.”

“Will you sit by me?” I patted the sofa cushion.

He perched cautiously.

I took a steadying breath. “I can’t fathom what you’ve been through, but I have similar scars on my thighs.”

His eyes swept over my legs as though trying to detect the scars through my jeans.

“This seems silly in comparison, but I started cutting as a sophomore in high school. My parents were going through an ugly divorce, and my classmates picked on me relentlessly for being fat and weird. I’d always made A’s, but my grades were slipping for the first time. My best friend killed herself on my birthday that year. I was just really struggling.”

“None of that is silly.”

The validation buoyed me. “I kept doing it through college until I slipped and accidentally cut too deep. Well, I always claimed it was an accident, but it wasn’t, really. Deandra saved my life. She walked in on me, whipped up a tourniquet, and drove me straight to the hospital. I had to go through therapy to be released. I’ve relapsed a couple of times—mostly after nasty breakups—but I’ve been ok for the past several years.” David had almost broken my streak. Almost.

“I knew you would understand,” Rafael said quietly. “This is a lot, I know. It is a lot to live with as well. But I am so tired of being alone.”

Maybe finding love isn’t about healing yourself enough to be ready for it. Maybe it’s about finding someone whose darkness understands yours so you can heal together.

“Can I hug you?”

Rafael pulled me into his lap in a fierce embrace. I wrapped my arms carefully around his neck and pressed my cheek to his.

“Do not worry, it takes grabbing my throat or applying significant pressure to trigger me,” he murmured into my hair.

I nestled closer. “May I touch your face?”

Rafael blinked. “Yes.”

I stroked his cheek. “We have plenty of time to learn the nuances, but I’m glad you’re giving me the broad strokes up front. I want to know everything about you. Trauma, kinks, and all.”

He relaxed. “Authors write many things they may not actually desire, but with the way you described certain kinks, can I assume you have some experience?”

My face heated, and I giggled away my nerves. “Not as much as I’d like.”

A soft laugh buzzed against my ribs. “I can help with that. May I kiss you?”

I tilted my head back, and his lips met mine. Unlike the hunger of that first kiss, this one was gentle. Appreciative. Like coming home.

“Can I touch your scars?” Every cutter had a unique relationship with our permanent reminders. Some of us wore them openly, some hid them. For some, even seeing them could be triggering. I covered mine mainly because I didn’t like seeing my bare legs. Since he’d willingly shown me and had no coverup tattoos, Rafael likely wore the long sleeves to avoid more intrusive questions. But I’d let him tell me that.

He held a tentative arm out. I caught his wrist and traced the train track scars; the ladder rungs of self-harm, the long lateral rails from old suicide attempts. A map of the history of his pain.

“May I kiss your wrist?”

Rafael sighed an affirmative. I brought his wrist to my lips and tenderly kissed the thick, raised scars. I plucked his other hand from where it rested loosely on my hip and brought it to my mouth for good measure. In time, I’d learn all of him and kiss away all the pain. Kiss him as much as he needed to keep it away.

Shit, I wasn’t just falling for this man. I was already six feet under and steadily sinking toward the core of the earth. How had it only been three short dates?

I released his wrist. “Until I know your boundaries really well, I’ll ask your permission for everything. Is that ok? I’d like to touch your shoulders and chest.”