Unbound (The Captive #7)(90)

A shiver worked its way over his chilled skin. Goose bumps covered his skin as night descended. Daniel and Timber were sleeping when Maeve knelt at his side again and handed him a piece of soggy bread from the last safe house.

“When can we leave?” she asked him.

“Not until morning, at least.”

She sat next to him and pressed her back against the wall. She’d pulled her wet cloak off earlier and set it with the others in the back of the cave. The thin shirt she wore underneath stuck to her petite frame as it dried. She had to be freezing, he certainly was, but still she didn’t complain, and he couldn’t build a fire to warm her.

Her black hair tumbled in waves around her shoulders as she picked at her piece of bread. The sleeves of her shirt had been pinned into place, hiding the scars there. Her arm brushed against his as her fingers pulled at the bread. He sensed she had something to say, but he waited until she was ready to speak instead of questioning her.

“Do you still have nightmares?” she inquired after a few minutes.

Though they had only briefly discussed it before, he knew she was talking about his time as a blood slave. “Yes, do you?”

“Yes.” She stuck a piece of bread in her mouth and chewed on it. “Almost every night.” Her fingers went to the scar on her face and traced over it.

“How did you get that?” he asked.

Her hand fell away, and her gaze focused on the opposite wall. “My captor sometimes thought it was more fun to cut me open to drink my blood. It’s not the only one I have.”

Max clamped his teeth together, barely containing his need to slam his fist into the cave wall. He took a steadying breath. She was a fighter, but she wouldn’t handle seeing that kind of unprovoked violence from him, not after what she’d experienced.

“I see,” he said when he could trust himself to speak again. He knew he couldn’t show her pity; she would turn away from him if he did.

She continued to stare ahead, her fingers fiddling with the bread in her hand. “I survived at least, many didn’t.”

“Very true,” he replied, though he knew a part of him had died in Katrina’s hands.

Feeling more in control of himself again, he brushed a strand of her hair from her cheek. She flinched away when he traced over her scar. “Don’t pull away from me,” he said and rested his hand against her cheek. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of being hurt,” she retorted. “The scar reminds me to never be weak again, and I don’t like anyone touching it.”

“What happened to you doesn’t mean you were weak.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

For a second, she turned into his palm before looking away once more. “Then what does it mean?”

“That sometimes shit happens, and there is nothing you can do about it. That doesn’t mean you’re weak. It simply means you’re alive.”

She placed the loaf of bread on the ground and pulled at the edges of her sleeves, though they already covered her scars. Moving away from the wall, she turned to face him as she knelt before him. He watched in fascination as she took hold of his hand before she slowly worked the sleeve of his shirt up.

Normally, he pulled away from people, ashamed for them to see the burns and bite marks encircling his wrists and rising up his forearms, but he allowed her to explore them. She also tried to keep most of her scars hidden, but she had to bare the one on her face for the world to see, and he wanted to give this baring of himself to her.

He welcomed her delicate, chilled fingers running over his skin. He saw only understanding in her eyes as she uncovered more of his scars. She knew how he’d acquired every one of those marks and the degradation that had come with each one of them.

She drew her bottom lip into her mouth as she continued to stroke him with fascination. It had been years since he’d allowed anyone to look at him so openly, to touch him in such a way. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed and craved it until her skin warmed his.

His gaze fell to her tempting mouth. He’d give anything to be able to taste her. Her hands stilled on him and he lifted his eyes to hers.

“Did your captor do other things to you?” she asked. “Besides the feeding and the torture?”

He knew she spoke of the sexual abuse, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. “Yes.”

Her head bowed, her black hair falling forward to shield her face. Tears brimmed in her eyes and one slid down her cheek. “Mine too,” she whispered.

He smothered the burning rage that burst through his chest. “Is he still alive?” Max grated through his teeth. Because if he was, Max was going to make it a point to remedy that.

“No. He was killed during the war. What of yours?”

“She’s also dead.”

“Good.”

Leaning forward, he encircled his hand around the back of her head and drew her toward him. She flinched then melted against him when he placed the lightest of kisses to her lips before sitting back. She sighed when he pulled her against him and settled her within his lap. Like a kitten, she nestled against his chest.

He’d never felt needed before, but he felt it now. She needed him, and he needed her. She understood what few in this world could, understood him and what he lived with every day, just as he understood her. Turning his head into her hair, he inhaled the scent of the rain clinging to her skin.