I half-expect him to make another crude allusion to the au pair who apparently deflowered him. But he doesn’t. The look in his eyes remains caught between melancholy and memory.
“I took care of myself.”
That’s all he gives me. I can see the emotion lying beneath the armor, the tender pain, but it’s still carefully preserved behind all that steel. Visible now, which is an improvement, but still completely out of my reach.
He has a story he’s not telling me.
He has a history he’s keeping from me.
And as much as I want to know, I’m scared to push too hard for fear that he’ll push right back, and push me right out of his life in the process.
I don’t even realize that I’m tracing the scar until Daniil reaches out and takes my right hand. I stop short as he flips it around, exposing the un
