Chapter 9: The Scar

I sat down on the carpet next to him, in my slip, with my knees against his.

"The rule was mine," I said. "I get to break it."

"Solveig."

"Come to bed. That isn't a question."

"If I do, you'll ask me things."

"Then I'll ask," I said. "And you can tell me what you want, or you can tell me no. I'll still be here."

He looked at me then, for the first time all night.

His eyes were wet and very dark.

"I've never been so afraid of anything," he said.

"Of me?"

"Of getting what I want."

I took his face in both hands and kissed him.

He made a low, rough noise and pulled me into his lap.

His mouth went from mine to my jaw and then to the side of my throat.

My fingers went into his hair and held on.

"Bed," I said against his ear.

He stood with me wrapped around him and carried me in, and he kicked the door shut.

He laid me down on the white sheets and stood over me with his chest heaving.

I sat up and unbuttoned his shirt.

My hands were not steady, and I took my time with every button.

Under the cloth his skin was hot.

Across his left ribs ran a long pale scar, ridged and old, from the middle of his chest around toward his back.

I laid my palm over it.

"What is this?"

His whole body went still.

"That's a question," he said.

"I know."

"A car," he said. "I was nineteen. I was lucky."

It was not the whole answer, and we both knew it.

I let it go and put my mouth on the scar instead.

He swore softly.

His hand went into my hair, and I felt him shaking.

"Lie back," I said.

"Solveig."

"Lie back, Declan."

He did.

I pulled my slip over my head and knelt over him in the lamplight, with my hair falling around my face.

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