Rory
She holds my gaze for a second, then grins, before turning on her heels for the door. At first, I think she’s going to leave, but she flips the sign to closed and bolts the lock. “This okay?” she asks.
My entire nervous system sets itself on fire.
I nod, too scared of what might come out if I try to speak.
She skips back to me and leans in, giving me a quick flash of the soft round of her shoulder, then brushes her hair back—slowly, almost ceremonially—baring the side of her neck.
She waits, letting my eyes adjust to what she’s showing me.
At first, I don’t notice it; her hair is the kind of red that dares you to look anywhere else.
Then I see a gold filigree that starts behind her ear, runs down her neck, and sweeps across her breast, before getting lost below her plunging neckline.
I take a step closer, drawn by something ancient and helpless.
“A…a gold tattoo?” I ask, unsure why she’s showing me this.
“Look closer, Rory,” she says, shuffling so close that I can’t focus with my glasses still on.
I lift my glasses and blink as my eyes readjust. The red of her hair washes away, almost matching the gold of the tattoo.
And then it comes into focus: the filigree covers a thick pale, healed many years ago, scar.
The line is jagged, surgical, old, but angry.
It’s the kind of scar that says, “I am not breakable.”
My eyes trace it down to where it stops at her dress’s neckline, and the thought of where else it goes makes me shift uncomfortably. “A scar?” I ask stupidly, because it’s obvious.
She doesn’t respond. She just smirks and steps back.
I return my glasses to their origin, just in time to see her finger the first button on her dress.
My hands tremble.
Her hands are steady. She pops the button. Then another. And another.
I almost black out.
Her dress is now nearly open to her navel, spread just enough to reveal the soft curve under her breasts. She takes her time, giving me every opportunity to tell her to stop. As if. As if I could ever want her to stop.
The scar thickens, running between her breasts, jagging right, then left, then down over her stomach, cutting through the gentle curve of her hip. There’s no rhyme or reason to it; it crosses her body with the same chaotic energy she crossed around my store.
Tracing along the scar, the tattoo continues, decorating it with beautiful, delicate patterns that emulate twirling golden vines, flowers, and leaves.
Nestled within the patterns are smatterings of sparkling gems embedded within her flesh, framing her scar, making it the centerpiece, a beautiful flaw at the heart of her.
She says, “I repair scars too, sort of. It’s why I became a tattoo artist. Embracing scars is my specialty.”
Now her fingers are at the buttons below her belly button, and—
Oh, my God. I was right. She’s not wearing panties.
I retreat a step. “Scarlett, I—”
She steps forward and unbuttons another. “You what, Rory? Do you want me to stop?”
I shake my head, but retreat another step.
She negates the move with a step forward, while undoing the last button on her dress. She spreads it open so I can see the full, glorious beauty of her nudity.
I step back again, and my tail, which I didn’t realize was thrashing, knocks over another of my mother’s teacups. The shatter jolts through me, but my eyes don’t break their gaze.
“Everyone calls me Scar. It’s not just because it’s short for Scarlett. I got in an accident when I was a kid, and,” she snorts, half-laughing, “well, you can see what happened. Anyway, kids started calling me Scar to tease me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing what else to say.
“You don’t have to apologize for everything, Rory.
The teasing didn’t work. Even before, when the scar was red and huge, the teasing never bothered me.
I went through this awful thing and, yeah, it changed me…
but,” she runs her fingers down her scar, mapping it.
“It shows how fucking lucky I am. If it had been just a little to the left here,” she points at her neck, “I’d be dead.
Or a little to the right here,” she points at her chest, “I’d be dead.
” She points at various locations on her body as she says, “Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.” Her eyes return to mine when she says, “But I’m not dead. ”
I shake my head. I’m sure my mouth is hanging open, but I can’t talk.
She smiles. “So this scar—it represents pain, yeah. But it also represents fate. I look at it, and I think, ‘There’s a reason you’re still alive, Scarlett.’”
She drops her dress to the ground, not that it was hiding much at this point anyway. But now I can see the full outline of her perfect hips, her perfect waist, her perfect everything.
She continues, “For a long time, I thought I was spared or whatever because I was meant for greatness. But now I think maybe the reason is not to cure cancer or do something spectacular or whatever, but maybe the reason is just to live. To love. Maybe that’s enough. Does that make sense?”
I nod.
She moves closer, but this time I don’t back up. My eyes drink her in, mapping every freckle, every line of ink, every inch of luminous, lovely, alive skin. “And kids could make fun of me all they want, but fuck them! I went through all that, and I still turned out hot as shit, right?”
I nod.
I want to touch her—more than anything I have ever wanted.
I reach forward, but stop short—afraid that even my gentlest touch could do harm.
She giggles. “You can touch me.”
My hand trembles, but the rest of me remains frozen, seized with an all-consuming fear. I still can’t close the distance between us, so she does it for me.
She takes my hand and places it against her breastbone. Her skin is impossibly soft, and her voice is impossibly soft when she says, “Rory, it’s okay, you won’t break me.”
When she places her hand atop mine, it looks so small in comparison. I try to pull away, but she holds tight. “Rory, I’m serious. You won’t hurt me.”
I let my hand run down her chest, following the scar like a roadmap. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”
She blushes. “You say that to all the girls who break your mom’s tea sets?”
I laugh, “Actually. I’ve never said it before.” I’m starting to realize that she jokes when she’s feeling vulnerable.
She bites the inside of her cheek and breaks eye contact to say, “I’m sorry for breaking your mom’s tea set.”
I shake my head and admit something I’ve never admitted before: “It’s fine. I hate them. All of them—my mother’s pieces. I wish you had broken them all.”
She laughs. “Really? So all that sweet, profound stuff about this being your herd and repairing broken porcelain was just—what?—a weird porcelain shop owner pickup line?”
“No, I’ll repair it,” I admit. “Her work is just a constant reminder that I was born to ruin nice things.”
I ruined her. Ruined her art. Ruined her life…will ruin Scarlett, too…
I try to pull back from Scarlett, but she has me pinned now, and there’s no room left behind me.
Her face goes soft. “But you fix the things you break.”
I nod. “I try. Sometimes I get to. Sometimes I can’t.”
“Sometimes it’s not your job to fix it.”
She turns her head and places her temple against my sternum, wrapping her arms around my waist, hugging me. I dare to place my hand on her head, and when she squeezes me tight, I can’t help but wrap my other arm around her shoulders.
Mine.
I whisper, so quiet I almost don’t hear it myself, “Scarlett, I think you’re my fated mate.”
She looks up, eyebrow raised, and smirks. “Is this a weird minotaur pickup line?”
I try to smile, but my face won’t cooperate; my face quivers instead. “No. The first time I smelled you, I knew. It’s not just…instinct. It’s like every part of me wants you. Needs you.”
She considers this for a moment, then squeezes me tighter around my waist, returning her temple to my chest. “I think…I feel it, too…I feel drawn to you.”
I look down at her head, so small under my hand. “Scarlett, I want to claim you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Rory. I want you to.”