Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(51)

“I don’t even know what to say,” Rogan confesses. I see all sorts of tightly controlled emotions on his face, but there’s only one I’m searching for. It’s why I understood him that day in the makeup room when I first saw his scars.

“You see why I didn’t pity you when I saw your scars? I knew how you felt. I knew that pity is like acid for people like us. It eats away at what little there is left of our soul. I’d rather someone hate me or think I’m backward and shy and weird than pity me.”

“I don’t pity you. But I do pity that * ex of yours if I ever run into him.”

I shake my head. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth another second of my misery. I gave him too much already.”

“Sometimes we don’t give it. Sometimes people take it when we aren’t looking. It’s like they rip it out and by the time we realize it, the damage is done.”

“Is that how you feel about your father?”

“In a way. It’s like we were an okay family, and then, before I even knew that we were broken, he’d already stolen something from me. Something I couldn’t get back.” He looks off into the distance behind my shoulder, lost in time, falling silent for several seconds before he turns his eyes back to mine. “The thing is, we can still survive. Even if pieces are scarred. Or dead. Or even missing. We can still survive. We can still live.”

I glance down at my fingers where they fidget in my lap, clasping and unclasping, clasping and unclasping. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really live again. I feel like the star of a fairy tale that went wrong. So, so wrong. Like Beauty turned into the beast. In the blink of an eye. So much more than just my skin died in the fire that day. I lost everything.”

“Katie, look at me,” Rogan insists, his finger tipping my face up toward his. “You’re not a beast. You’re still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Your scars don’t change that. The problem is, you won’t take my word for it. You don’t believe it. And unfortunately, I can’t make you see it. You have to find it in the mirror, and you need to. You survived, but now you need to live. Because when you aren’t living, you’re dying a little more every day.”

I feel my chin begin to tremble against his finger. “I’m trying. This . . . you are the closest I’ve come to living in a long time.”

“Then let me bring you back to life,” he whispers, brushing his lips over mine in a kiss even softer than his words. “Inch by inch, day by day, touch by touch.” I close my eyes and let him soothe away the worry, the fear, the ash that I’ve carried in a bucket where my heart used to be. “Will you? Will you let me?” My eyelashes flutter up to find his jewel-like green eyes staring intensely down into mine. “Please,” he breathes. I more see the word on his mouth rather than hear it.

The Katie I’ve fashioned from the remains of who I used to be hesitates, but within seconds, the lonely shell of the girl I was sighs into Rogan’s descending mouth. “Okay,” I manage and then his kiss turns into fire.

? ? ?

Monday. It’s incredible what a difference a couple of days makes. I can’t remember a better weekend. Ever. Granted, it had a few rough patches, but the good more than made up for the bad. Even as a child, when practically every day was loaded with some kind of happy memory of my parents, I can’t remember feeling so whole and optimistic. It almost worries me, like I should be waiting for the world to cave in around me and demolish the little glimmer of hope I’m beginning to glimpse.

I don’t know what kind of future Rogan and I could have, if any, but just the prospect, just the consideration of a tomorrow with someone is a huge step for me. I truly thought I was going to be alone. Forever.

There’s a hitch in my step as I walk through the door to work. Nearly every morning since I’ve been here I’ve run into Ronnie first thing. We share our little ritualistic greeting and then go on with our day. Only today, things are different. And not just because of Rogan.

My carefree, happy morning just took a stressful turn as my eyes scan the hall for Ronnie. I don’t see him anywhere.

But who I do see is Rogan.

My lips twitch up into a small, relieved smile when I spot his tall physique. He’s clad in the rattiest jeans I’ve ever seen, along with black boots, a black tee, and a wicked grin that makes me blush. He didn’t leave my house until almost dawn. Said he wanted to be there when his brother got up so he could fix their breakfast, as was his habit. Of course I didn’t argue, even though I was loath to see him go. Much more than I would’ve expected when we’ve only really known each other for a few weeks. That alone should be a warning sign.

His sparkling green eyes watch my every step until I stop in front of him. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawls.

Butterflies beat their gossamer wings against the walls of my stomach, of my chest. I forgot what this feels like—this intimate feeling of knowing someone, of being close to them in a way that binds you, that turns every glance, every smile, every brush of the hand to delicious innuendo. To carefully controlled passion, biding its time until it can be unleashed.

I’m reveling in the moment, in the sensation, right up until Rogan begins to lean toward me. It shakes me from my fantasy world and I take a step back, glancing left and right.