Chapter 17 – COLE
CHAPTER 17
COLE
M y jaw clenches as Bella guides me to a chair in the kitchen, each step feeling like a march to execution. The fluorescent lights above us highlight every ridge and valley of scar tissue on my face and neck. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished chrome of the refrigerator—a monster in a horror show, half my face twisted into a permanent snarl that bares several teeth through ruined flesh.
Every instinct screams at me to run, to get as far away from her gentle hands as possible. To spare her the revulsion of touching this ruined flesh. But I stay frozen in place as she sets the first aid kit on the counter, the white plastic box a stark contrast against the dark marble.
"This might sting a little," she warns softly, pulling out antiseptic wipes. The packaging crinkles in her delicate hands.
I almost laugh, the sound catching like broken glass in my throat. As if a little antiseptic could compare to having half your body melted off. To watching your own flesh bubble and char as the flames consumed everything you used to be. But I hold my tongue, watching warily as she takes my right hand in hers.
The first touch of her fingers against my scarred skin sends electricity shooting up my arm. The texture difference between her soft skin and my ravaged flesh makes bile rise in my throat. No one should have to touch this. To feel the way the explosion reshaped me into something barely human. I fight the urge to jerk away, forcing myself to stay still as she begins cleaning the blood from my split knuckles. Her hands are impossibly small compared to mine, impossibly gentle as she works.
Her scent wraps around me, piercing through the artificial chemical stench Braxley pumps through the vents. Warm caramel coffee and kindness and everything I don't deserve. Something that calls to the deepest, most primal part of me. The part that still thinks it's human enough to deserve a mate.
Mate.
The word echoes in my head like a curse, like the punch line to some cosmic joke. The universe must have a sick sense of humor, dangling this perfect omega in front of a creature like me.
I don't deserve a mate.
Not when I'm more monster than man. Not when children cry at the sight of me and mothers pull them to the other side of the street. Not when my own reflection makes me want to put my fist through the mirror.
"These cuts are pretty deep," Bella murmurs, her brow furrowed in concentration. The gentle press of her fingers against my torn knuckles sends sparks of pain through my hand. Pain I welcome. Pain I deserve. "What did you hit?"
"Wall," I grunt, not trusting myself to say more. Not when her touch is setting every nerve ending on fire. Not when the scarred tissue screams with oversensitivity while the dead patches feel nothing at all. A constant reminder of how broken I am.
She makes a soft sound. Not quite disapproval, but close. "Yeah. Brick walls tend to win those fights."
I stay silent, watching as she carefully cleans each split knuckle. She doesn't seem bothered by the rough texture of my scarred skin, doesn't hesitate to touch the places where the tissue is twisted and mottled. The gentle sweep of her fingers is almost hypnotic. No one's touched me like this since Sarah. Since she saw what was left of me and couldn't hide her horror fast enough.
"I should clean that cut on your eyebrow too," she says after a while, glancing up at my face. At the gash Troy's fist left above my fucked up eye. The one with a lower lid that's pulled down, the one that barely works, the one that sees the world through a haze on my bad days.
A growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it.
No one touches my face. Not the doctors who put me back together. Not the pack who's seen me at my worst.
No one.
But Bella doesn't flinch at the sound. Just looks at me with those green eyes that see too much. That look at my ruined face like I'm something worth looking at.
"Please?" she asks softly.
Something in my chest cracks at that gentle plea.
One word, and it slips past all my defenses.
I find myself giving a short nod, even as every muscle in my body tenses for what's coming. For the inevitable moment when revulsion wins out over kindness.
She moves slowly, carefully telegraphing her movements as she reaches for my face. When her fingers brush against my scarred cheek, I jerk back instinctively, decades of conditioning screaming at me to hide, to protect myself from the horror and disgust that always follows.
The memory of Sarah's face when she first saw me after the explosion flashes through my mind. The way her eyes widened, the way her face blanched, the small step back she took before she could catch herself. The beginning of the end.
But Bella doesn't recoil. Doesn't flinch away from the rough texture of my ruined skin. Her touch remains steady, impossibly gentle as she cleans the cut. Like she's handling something precious instead of monstrous.
"How long have you been carving?" she asks conversationally, and I realize she's trying to distract me. Not from any physical pain—that stopped registering years ago—but from the panic clawing at my throat. From the voice in my head screaming that I don't deserve for her to even be in the same room with me.
I have to swallow twice before I can speak. "Since... after." The word tastes like ash in my mouth.
She doesn't need to ask after what. The evidence is written all over my face, carved into my flesh like some twisted artist's signature.
"It must take a lot of patience," she continues, her fingers careful around the tender flesh. "All those tiny details. The feathers looked so real."
I shrug, hyperaware of every point of contact between her skin and mine. Every place where smooth meets scarred, soft meets ruined. "Helps me focus. Keeps my hands busy," I mutter.
Keeps them from destroying things.
"Instead of hitting walls?" There's no judgment in her voice, just quiet understanding. Like she knows something about needing an escape. About feeling trapped in your own skin.
Another shrug. I don't know how to explain that sometimes the rage and self-hatred build up until I have to let it out somehow. That the physical pain is better than drowning in memories I can't escape. Better than remembering the way my mate looked at me like I was something that should have died in that explosion.
"Well," she says, applying a small butterfly bandage to the cut, "maybe next time you feel like punching something, you could carve something instead? I'd love to see more of your work."
I have no fucking clue what to say to that. When was the last time anyone showed interest in something I created? When was the last time anyone looked at me and saw more than just a monster?
"Why are you doing this?" The question bursts out before I can stop it, rough and raw like everything else about me.
Her hands still against my skin. "Doing what?"
"This." I gesture vaguely at my face, my bandaged hands. At all the broken pieces she's trying to put back together. "Helping me. You should be... you should be afraid. Disgusted. Everyone else is."
Everyone else has the sense to stay away.
She opens her mouth like she's going to argue, but she thinks better of lying to me. "I'm not everyone else," she murmurs instead.
And God help me, I want to believe her.
She finishes bandaging my hands, but her fingertips linger on my skin. The touch is barely there, like butterfly wings against my scars, but it sets every nerve ending alight. Makes me feel things I thought burned away years ago.
For the first time, someone's hands on my scars don't make me want to crawl out of my skin. Don't make me feel like a freak.
When she finally steps back, she gives me a smile. Not the forced, pitying ones I'm used to getting from the rare few who don't look utterly horrified. Not the tight-lipped grimace of someone trying not to stare me.
A real smile, warm and genuine.
Like I'm worth smiling at. Like the monster in front of her deserves that kind of light.
Something shifts inside me, a hairline crack in the walls I've built around what's left of my heart. Walls built from rage, built over years of keeping everyone at arm's length.
The thought is fucking terrifying.
Because if she is different, that means I have something to lose. And I learned the hard way what happens when I try to hold onto beautiful things.
But as I watch Bella pack up the first aid kit, humming softly to herself like she didn't just spend the last ten minutes touching a monster's ruined flesh, I can't help but wonder.
What if, just this once, someone stayed?
"There," she says, closing the kit with a decisive click. "All patched up. Try not to pick any more fights with walls, okay?"
She smiles again.
How?
I find myself nodding, even though we both know it's a promise I probably can't keep. The rage is always there, simmering beneath my skin, waiting for a chance to break free. To remind me what I really am.
But next time I feel it building, I'll do something different.
I'll create something else for her. Something beautiful to balance out all the ugly I've dragged into her world.
The thought sneaks in before I can stop it, and I have to clench my jaw against the wave of hope and terror it brings me. Hope is dangerous. Hope is what got me through thirteen surgeries—most of them useless in the end—only to watch my mate walk away. Hope is what keeps me getting up every morning even though the mirror shows me the same nightmare.
"Thank you," I force out.
Her smile brightens, and for a moment it's like staring into the sun. Too bright, too pure for something like me to look at directly. "You're welcome, Cole."
She says my name so fondly. Like I'm just a man, scarred but still human. Still worth saving.
I want to say something else. Want to explain why I ran today, why I lashed out at Troy, why I can't seem to stop fucking everything up. But the words stick in my throat, tangled up with years of silence and shame.
So I just nod, pushing back from the table. Need to put some distance between us before I do something stupid. Like believe I deserve her kindness. Like think I could ever be anything but a broken soldier.
But as I turn to leave, her voice stops me.
"Cole?"
I freeze, not turning around. Not now, when everything feels too raw, too close to the surface. When I can still feel the ghost of her gentle touch on my ruined skin.
"I meant what I said," she continues softly. "About wanting to see more of your carvings. When you're ready."
When you're ready.
Not if.
Like she actually expects me to show her more. Like she wants to see the things these scarred hands can create instead of destroy.
I manage another jerky nod before escaping, my skin still tingling where she touched me. Her caramel coffee scent follows me down the hallway.
But for the first time since the grenade went off next to me that day, I find myself wanting to try. Wanting to be worthy of those gentle hands and that sweet, soft smile.
Wanting to be more than what I am.