Lucas didn’t want to leave the bed. Celia wrapped herself around him, her leg hooked over his hip and her hand resting lightly over his heart. He dragged his fingers through her hair, shorter now after he’d trimmed away the burnt ends the night before. In the soft morning light, he could see the scar around her wrist from the shackles, still rough and red from the silver.
He covered her hand with his, comparing the marks on their skin. His own scars were broader and darker, a reminder of how long he had worn those restraints and how violently he had fought against them.
Strangely, the scars didn’t bother him. If anything, they made something fierce rise in his chest. They proved how far he would go for her.
“Cece,” he murmured, brushing her face from her face.
She made a small noise an
