“Regrets already, Sydney?” Lucas asked, the question a
low ripple in the silent room.
“No.” Once more Sydney studied him. The piercing green-
blue eyes that had blazed with scorching heat less than
an hour ago but were now shuddered, impassive. The almost
lush, sensual curve of his mouth that contrasted with the
sharply hewn planes of his face. The hard, strong line of
his jaw. The harsh imperfection of the scar that was
perfect on him.
Confusion commingled, mated with the blush of arousal.
Questions and concerns—she had dozens of those. But
regret? No.
“Does it bother you?” He plucked up a slice of chicken
and popped it into his mouth. God, it wasn’t fair that he
made eating with his fingers sexy, too.
She blinked, refocusing on their conversation. But
couldn’t follow. He’d lost her.
She frowned. “That we had sex?”
“No. The scar. You were staring at it. Does it bother
you?” No emotion or inflection in the question, just a
flat monotone that he could’ve used to ask the time of
day.
Like the first time he’d asked that question three weeks
ago—God, had it only been three weeks since he’d exploded
into her life?—the quick “Not at all” rose to her tongue,
hovered there. But at the last instant, she didn’t utter
the three words. Because they would be a lie.
“Yes,” she murmured. Something flared in his gaze—
something old and dark before it became as opaque as
before. “But not for the reasons you probably think.” She
turned more fully toward him, tucking her foot under her
thigh. “When I first met you, of course I noticed the
scar. But I wasn’t repulsed. I ached for you. For the
pain you must’ve endured. It bothered me that you
suffered.” A scowl started to crease his brow, and she
shot up her hand, palm out. “I don’t pity you. No one who
looks at you could ever feel sorry for you. You’re too…
dangerous for that.” She huffed out a short bark of
laughter. “I remember thinking you resembled a panther.
Dark. Stunning. But predatory. The mark isn’t a sign of
your weakness but your strength. Your power to fight and
survive. I find it…” She paused, weighed the judgment of
revealing this particular truth.
He watched her like the animal she’d mentioned, his
scrutiny steady, unblinking, as if searching her for any
hint of a lie. Sighing, she rose from the bed, careful
not to jostle the tray. She approached him, moved between
his legs, and cupped his face.
“I find it beautiful,” she whispered. Then laid a gentle
kiss to the ridged flesh beneath his right eye before
placing another on the twin scar that bisected his
eyebrow. “I find you beautiful,” she confessed against
his skin.
His hands clutched her waist. Other than the tiny flexing
of his fingers, he remained as still as a statue. No,
that wasn’t true. His eyes blazed with a fire that burned
her.
