Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 118333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Tanner didn’t look at his arm. He didn’t look away from me. His cheek was a deep red from my slap, and he had nail marks all over his arms and neck from where we’d fought and then fucked.
But Tanner remained silent. For once I wanted to hear words spoken from his mouth. I needed him to speak. Instead, he lifted one of his hands and brought it slowly to my face. His jaw was clenched, his teeth gritted. I held my breath, wondering what he was about to do, then he pushed a piece of my hair back over my shoulder. My heart flipped in my chest, swelling at his soft gesture. As though he couldn’t take away his hand, he trailed it down my cheek, my neck, then over my breasts until his hand fell away and dropped by his side. His eyes had tracked the entire path.
His intensity left me breathless. Then he moved, taking me with him. Tanner walked across the room, but I wasn’t paying attention to where we were going. I was solely focused on him. Focused on his face, on my racing heart, on trying to understand what had just happened.
The sound of water finally made me look up. Tanner had brought us into the small bathroom. Steam began to rise from the shower. We stepped under the spray, letting the water rinse the blood from our bodies, me still in Tanner’s arms. He put me down, then took the soap from the rack and started washing my skin. I let him, my heart in my throat at the sight of this man—this man I had fought with for weeks—taking care of me. He kneeled down and started washing my legs, my thighs, between my legs . . . then he stopped. His head snapped up. I stiffened. I knew what he must have seen. I stepped back, suddenly awash with embarrassment. But Tanner didn’t let me move. He kept tight hold of my leg. His face was stern, and there was tension in his eyes.
I held my head high. Tanner stared at me, the shower washing away the blood to reveal his face, the one I was sure was now imprinted in my brain. I couldn’t read what was going through his mind, but he pulled me closer again and delicately, almost reverently, began washing between my legs. My stomach flipped, but I pushed the feeling away. I wouldn’t allow myself to be too drawn in to this man. I had to stop any emotion rooting its way into this moment.
Tanner stood and looked down at me. I didn’t want him to say anything. I didn’t want to have a conversation about what I knew was on his mind, so, “My turn,” I said in a betraying fragile voice. Taking the soap from his hand, I moved it to his chest and started cleaning away the blood. This close I could see each of the tattoos in detail. So many tattoos of hate and prejudice drowning his skin. I couldn’t imagine harboring a hate that deep. It must consume his soul. Rip the joy from his life and darken any light or happiness that tries to push through. I ran the soap over his chest, his abs, and his stomach, and I saw them. Felt them. Scars. Tanner had scars everywhere, routes of raised skin like road maps under the tattoos that hid them from view. I didn’t show that I was aware of them. Instead I kept cleaning his body. And the more I cleaned, the more scars I discovered. Most were on his back and chest. Places where most people would not have seen them. I didn’t need to wonder who had given them to him. After what I’d seen in the hallway last night, I knew it must have been his father. I knew in my heart it was him. Tanner had stood there, a grown man, and let his father beat him. That had to come from years of being conditioned to do so. Years and years of beatings and abuse.
The wave of sympathy that crashed over me in that moment gutted me. Invisible hands took hold of my heart and squeezed it like a vise, an iron grip. I sneaked a peek at his face, at the stony expression he wore, eyes focused as he watched me clean him—my sympathy for him only deepened. Tanner Ayers was domineering, intimidating, and, frankly, terrifying in both looks and personality. He had been made into this—the epitome of a hateful man. Bigoted. Racist, capable of evil things. Carefully molded by his father and his men into the perfect Nazi killing machine.
But right now, in this moment, with the discovery of hidden scars and the gentleness he had toward me, I let myself wonder—if only for a fleeting moment—if there was someone else inside of him. The promise of the man he could have been if not for the Klan’s conditioning. If there was a man who could love and laugh and feel . . . if there was a man who could share his smile with the world.