Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I am shit at this, at letting anyone in. “Embarrassed, I guess. I would rather you not have known.”
“But you…you have a hand. It’s still there.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Okay, I’m confused.”
There’s a buzzing in my ears. Soft. Like the blowing of the wind that isn’t there. There’s a hum in my bloodstream, and I know if I lose Darby, there’s going to be a wound there the likes of which I’ve never known, and I’ve known some bad ones. Like this.
I slowly turn my hand in the darkness so she can see it. She has to get closer because the light isn’t good enough. I let her see my left hand, which is smaller than the other, the skin shiny on top. It’s the palm that is the true horror. The skin is puckered around a burn in the center. It makes it hard to use my fingers, but the doctors worked miracles, and I still have some function. The one boon about this is that after the fact, it didn’t hurt. It’s just nasty to look at.
Darby gasps and sinks down to the sand right beside me. She reaches out to touch the twisted skin, skin that’s all wrong, but then she pulls back her hand. “May I?” she asks, so softly and sweetly that my heart constricts. Will I ever be able to deny her anything again? The prospect terrifies me.
I move my hand in answer, setting it on her leg. She’s wearing little cut-off jean shorts and a black tank top, which is not the red maxi dress she had on when we ate dinner. I can see the straps of a bikini top peeking out behind her neck. She dropped a towel on the sand behind her a few feet away. I focus on something else fast, on my hand brushing her soft skin—no, not that. Look out at the lake.
My eyes get pulled back the second she runs her fingertip over my palm, over the twisted skin. Ugly skin. “I was thinking about going swimming, but the hand really isn’t made for that. If it fell off and got lost in the lake, that would be a fortune lost, not to mention a damn inconvenience.”
“Leon,” Darby chokes. There’s enough pain in the way she says my name to break me. “I—please tell me there isn’t anymore. Please.” Her lashes flutter against her cheek as her eyes shut tightly. “I can’t bear it.”
The only regret I have is how much she’s hurting. For me. I don’t want this, but I can’t stop it. She bends her head, and I feel it. The wetness. She’s crying onto my palm. Her shoulders shake, and I want to touch her. I want to run my hand over them to soothe her. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how to. I’m frozen.
“It doesn’t hurt.” I need her to know that, especially since she’s being so very careful. “It’s just ugly. I’d rather people not see it on a daily basis and ask me about it.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that I can’t bear it.” She raises soft, liquid eyes to mine. Eyes that look like rain in the rain, if you could pick out such a thing—each individual drop. “I can bear it. I just hate that someone hurt you so much. Will you…t—tell me what happened?”
“I tell people it was an accident.”
“Kitty said…she said that last night, but she wouldn’t elaborate.”
“When my mom and sister left, it was a trade—me for them. My father wouldn’t lose all of us. I knew he’d go after us and keep dragging us back. My mom wanted to go back to France. To her family. Her parents were dead, but she had a brother. We wouldn’t have been safe. We would never have been safe, so I made a trade. I said I would stay if he let them go. He always wanted a son. And he told me I was his world.” I manage not to let out a bitter laugh, even though I feel every single ounce of that emotion inside. The loathing. The pain. The hate. The scalding fucking irony of it all.
“Jesus, Leon,” Darby whispers, broken. She kisses my hand again. Gently. Over and over.
“I cried when they left. I was twelve years old, and I cried. I thought I was losing them forever. It’s the only time I can remember crying, even throughout the worst of what he did to me. But he punished me. He wanted me to eradicate that weakness. He wanted to prove that I belonged to him, so he branded me. Not with a real brand, as that would have been too fancy. He used a fire poker instead. Heated the damn thing up and told me it was my hand, my ass, or my face.”