Page 84 of Aryn

I stare at the floor, cheeks burning.

“You’re embarrassed,” he says, focused on my hair.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “No shit.”

He’s quiet for another moment, carefully combing through the tangles. “Thraeva affects people differently. Some don’t always remember things clearly.”

I swallow hard, recognizing the out he’s offering. If I said I didn’t remember, he’d let it go and never bring it up again.

But I remember all of it.

Every needy sound I made. Every desperate roll of my hips. Every whispered plea against his neck.

Every fucking word.

Aryn sets the comb down and runs his fingers through my hair one last time, smoothing it back from my face. His touch is so gentle, and I realize, with a strange mix of panic and relief, how much I like this—sitting here letting him take care of me. Letting him lead.

His chest fills my line of sight as he steps around to stand in front of me. He picks up the grooming kit he bought yesterday and tilts my chin up with gentle fingers. My eyes meet his, searching for the anger he has every right to feel, but there’s only patience.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

I obey without thinking.

He works on my beard with quiet focus, carefully shaping it with the comb before trimming the stray hairs. Every soft scrape of the scissors and brush of his fingers against my jaw feels far too intimate for how raw I am right now.

“You always take such good care of this,” Aryn says quietly. “I noticed it even before we got here. No matter how rough things get or what you’re doing, you manage it.”

I swallow, throat tight. “Yeah, I… it…”

He nods like he already understands my fumbling. “I know. You don’t like people seeing what’s underneath.”

My stomach twists. He’s always been too damn observant.

His fingers tighten around my chin as he guides my eyes to his. “How long has it been since anyone has seen beyond your surface?”

“A really long time,” I admit in a whisper.

Aryn sets the scissors down and picks up the straight razor. He lathers a bit of soap along my neck and jawline, then begins shaving me. The blade glides over my skin in slow, deliberate passes. He wipes it clean after every stroke, tilting my head exactly how he needs it. The whole process feels almost reverent.

I stay perfectly still, barely breathing.

After a long silence, I blurt, “It’s because of the scars.”

Aryn pauses, razor hovering just above my skin as his eyes flick up to meet mine.

“You heard the story,” I continue, voice rough. “All they are is a reminder of what I lost. When people see those scars, they want to know what happened. They want me to exchange my grief for their curiosity, and the beard hides it so they can’t fucking ask.”

“It helps you forget what you lost.”

“Yeah,” I rasp.

He’s quiet for a moment, then continues shaving with the same gentle care. “You don’t need to hide them from me, but I understand why it matters to you. I can help you keep it neat, if you want.”

The tenderness in his voice hurts, and I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know how to do any of this. So instead of answering, I just nod.

Aryn finishes the last pass along my neck, wipes the remaining soap away with the towel, and runs his fingers over my jaw to check his work.

“Better?” he asks.