Beneath the Scars (8 page)

He shifted, his head tilting to the other side as he settled, still sleeping, back into the chair. I stepped back in shock.

His face.

The skin on the right side of his face was twisted and marred, stretched tight and rough over his cheekbones. I was certain he had been burned. Small patches of hair were missing from his scalp and jaw, the rough skin showing through in the dim light. One corner of his mouth was twisted, causing an uneven, permanent grimace on the one side of his full lips. There were more scars running down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his crewneck sweater.

A small gasp escaped my mouth as comprehension hit me. That was why he hid from the world.

Zachary’s eyes flew open, his startled gaze meeting my overwhelmed one. He blinked, a look of horror spread over his features, and he stood up. His sudden movement scared me and I stepped back, losing my footing, falling backwards. He lurched forward, grabbing, his arms encircling and dragging me close to him.

For a moment there was no sound in the room other than our heavy breathing. I could feel his rapid heartbeat as he pressed me close, and I had no doubt he was feeling mine. My hands were clutching his thick sweater, my face buried into his chest while his arms held me, his stance rigid and unyielding, yet somehow protective and comforting. I inhaled deeply, his ocean-drenched scent calming and soothing as it enveloped me. Then, as quick as he had come close, he pushed me, stepping back and turning around. With his back now to me, he stood by the fireplace, head hung low, as the flames flickered over his shielded profile.

The tension in the air was palpable. In desperation, I searched my head for the appropriate thing to say. All other words failed me, and I offered the only ones I could find.

“I’m sorry.”

He barked out a laugh. “I bet you are.”

“No. That isn’t what I meant. I meant I’m sorry for disturbing your rest. It was rude of me to stare.”

His voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, I’m sure you didn’t mean you’re sorry you got a full look at me and it scared the hell out of you.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

He turned, fury evident on his face. “You don’t lie well, Megan.”

“I’m not lying. I was startled, but I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

“Why? Because you have some scars? That makes you scary?”

His eyes narrowed. “Ugliness outside often indicates there’s ugliness underneath.”

I scoffed at him. “More like you’re using the supposed ugliness to make people think that.”

He remained silent, his eyes piercing.

I stepped forward, trying to keep my voice soft, the need to reassure him, somehow vital. My heart hammered in my chest as I moved toward him. “Some of the most beautiful people in the world use their beauty to hide their ugliness, Zachary. I’ve seen that and experienced it myself. I don’t think you have any ugliness in you. No matter how hard you pretend or act, otherwise.”

“And you know this because?”

“Your paintings.”

“
My paintings
?”

“They show your emotions. They show you.”

“And what do you
think
you see?”

I hesitated to answer him.

“What do you think you see, Megan?” he demanded again, with a harsh voice.

“Besides the beauty you hide? Pain…confusion…need…loneliness. I see you turning your back on the world you think has turned its back on you.”

His indrawn breath was deep, his voice low and furious.

“Get out.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Megan stood gazing at me, her head shaking slowly back and forth, but she didn’t move. “You don’t mean that.”

Why wasn’t she listening to me? Why wasn’t she leaving?

“Get out of my house. Leave.” I pointed to the door, making sure she understood. “Now.”

“You wouldn’t send me out into a storm, Zachary. Your words are just empty threats to try and get me to hate you.” She came closer, her voice soothing and calm.

I barked out a harsh laugh as I stepped back. “You should hate me.”

“I don’t.” She edged forward again.

I frowned at her. Why was she coming closer? She should be backing away; even if she knew I wouldn’t throw her out of the house, she should want to move as far away from me—from my hideous face—as possible.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” She moved forward, closing any remaining distance between us to mere inches. I tried to step back, but I had nowhere to go, my back hitting the stone of the fireplace. I dragged in a shaking breath, only to have my already overloaded senses fill with her warm scent, shutting my eyes as it settled around me like a soothing blanket. When I opened them a moment later, it was to her wide, dark gaze. There was no revulsion or pity in their depths; only a simple calm, beseeching stare. She looked vulnerable as we gazed at each other, the room around us ceasing to exist.

Why was she looking at me like that? What did she want?

“Zachary,” she whispered.

It was too much. She was too close and too—

I lifted my hands to push her away, except when they wrapped around the top of her arms, it was as if they had a mind of their own. Time seemed to stop as my fingers caressed the smooth, silky skin not covered by her T-shirt, the warmth of her burning through my fingers to my very core. My arms flexed as they dragged her closer until our faces were almost touching. Her hands held tightly to my loose sweater, bunching the fabric in her small fists so hard, I knew the cuts on her palms would reopen. I knew her blood would seep into the material, forever staining it with her essence. It didn’t matter; I couldn’t let go of her. I held her so close it was as if I was trying to mold her into my skin and make her part of my body. Her hot breath washed over my face, and I could hear my own ragged, harsh breaths filling the room.

Still, neither of us said a word as we stared, clutching and holding each other, the heat between us burning brighter every second that passed. A small whimper escaped her lips, a pleading, needy sound and I was lost. My mouth covered hers roughly and I jerked her flush to me, not allowing a sliver of space between us. I groaned into her wet, warm mouth as I felt her hands slip into my hair, holding me close to her face. Her tongue was like silk on mine as we caressed and tasted, our tongues stroking and entwining. The taste of her was as sweet as I knew it would be, her lips as soft and her effect on me crippling. I plunged my hands into her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, directing her where I needed her to go with my touch. Megan gripped me tighter as I claimed her, needing and wanting more. Her heart hammered powerfully in her chest, so I knew she could feel mine as well. Small sounds from deep in her throat filled my ears as I ravished her mouth, lost in the heat and wonder that was Megan.

Her hands moved restlessly, stroking and tugging on my hair, and I growled in approval as she pressed closer. I slipped my hand under her shirt, settling wide across the warm skin of her back, caressing and teasing as she whimpered again. I hardened with want, pressing into her heat as she gasped and arched to me. I smiled into her mouth, breaking away only to fill my lungs, before capturing her swollen lips with mine again, unable to stay away. It was as though I was under her spell; she wove her magic around me, drawing me into a world of heat and passion.

It was then I felt it, though. Her hand slipped from my hair. She tenderly cupped my face; her fingers ghosting, light as air, over my marred, twisted skin. The feeling of her gentle touch was so intense—aside from my own hand, my face hadn’t been touched by another person since before I’d been scarred, and I jerked away in shock.

Megan stilled, looking up at me from hooded eyes, her hand frozen midair, much like the day I had seen her at the gallery. Her chest was heaving, her hair still clutched in my fist as she stared up at me, confused. Her mouth was glistening and swollen from mine, her cheeks flushed a delicious pink—she looked beautiful.

Too beautiful for me.

That reality crashed around me, and with a roar I pushed her away. She stumbled back, hitting the chair, her hand covering her mouth as she looked on in fear.

Now
she was afraid.

I said nothing. I could offer nothing. Rushing past her, I headed for the staircase and I tore up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were pursuing me, not stopping until I reached the sanctuary of my studio. I slammed the door behind me so hard, the paintings resting on the wall moved with the force of the action. I stood, leaning back into the door, my breath coming out in loud, ragged gasps. My hand pressed hard over my scarred cheek—the same one she had so gently caressed moments ago.

I wondered how repulsed she’d been when she had felt the twisted, hard scar tissue covering my face. The long, jagged scars and roughened skin, which served as a reminder to me daily of what I had lost. The words that had been screamed at me as my flesh burned and seared.

Now people can see you’re as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside!

Panic filled my chest and I bent over, clutching my knees, as it bloomed and tightened. I dragged in shallow gasps of air, trying to calm and center myself, as I fought against the memories threatening to swamp me. I attempted to find another, better memory as I buried my face into my hands, struggling to breathe. Megan’s scent hit me; its floral fragrance on my skin lingering from where I had my fingers wrapped in her thick hair. Greedily I inhaled, the scent calming me enough I could relax and lift my head. I straightened up and pushed off the door, flicking on the lights.

There was only one thing I could do to stop those memories.

I had to lose myself.

I walked forward and stopped in front of a blank canvas I had stretched earlier.

Picking up my favorite brush, I shut my eyes, allowing the images to take over. When I opened them again, all I saw was my canvas.

Everything else had disappeared.

I had no idea how much time passed when I finally set down the brush and stared at the painting. I stepped back, as I looked it over with a critical eye, and grunted a humorless chuckle.

Swirling, angry, black stormy skies circled and threatened over a calm, reflective ocean, its colors serene and in perfect contrast to the image above. The two images were so vastly contradictory; they didn’t even belong on the same canvas. Yet, they were, in fact, so starkly beautiful in their differences, that they complemented each other; dark versus light, anger versus calm; intense, hot black amid soft, cool blues and greens. It was good.

I also knew what it represented.

My shoulders slumped in exhaustion. I made my way to the door, opening it with care. Outside, Elliott was asleep, his huge head resting on his paws. He lifted his face to me, his tail thumping slowly on the floor as I leaned down to stroke his thick fur. I listened for a minute, but could hear nothing in the house, other than the wind outside. The storm had passed, and judging from the dim light coming in the windows, it was almost dawn. I crossed over and looked outside. Far down the beach I could see the house where Megan was staying. There was a light in the window; therefore I assumed she was now home safe and sound. I sighed in quiet relief, since I had no idea what I’d say to her if she was still in my house. I couldn’t explain any of my actions toward her: my harsh words, my unexpected passion, the horror I had felt when I realized she was touching my scars or the way I had flung her away.