His mouth opens but closes with a sigh. He rubs his thumb over the opposite palm. That’s when I see them—three deep, ragged scars running the length of his palm. They start at the web of his fingers, trace between the bones of his hands, and converge at the wrist. I reach for him without thinking, pulling his hand into the dim light of the parking lot lamp. “What happened to your hand?” His fingers curl into a fist, but he doesn’t pull away. “Nothing. Just an old scar.” “It’s not nothing. These look deliberate.” My eyes snap to his. “What happened to you?” He lets out a laugh with a sharp twist in it. “What hasn’t happened to me?” He tips his head back and closes his eyes. Long, dark lashes on golden cheeks. “Oh Angie, I can never tell you it all. And this isn’t the time or the place to tell even a little of it.” “Then why did you want to talk to me?” “To apologize. To—” He rolls his head toward me, gives me a vague smile that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes. “Angie, I will answer your questions. There isn’t enough time right now, but soon. I have one request.” “What is it?” “That you’ll hear me out.” He draws in a breath through his teeth. “That after you hear what I have to say, you’ll try not to be afraid of me.” I wrap my arms around myself on a chill. “I already am a little afraid of you, Reece. In more ways than one.” The words tumble out, more breath than voice.
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