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Even so, he had still been determined to stay away from her. Their marriage had been over. What he’d said to her the day she’d told him she’d miscarried could not be undone. No matter how much he apologized, the words had been said. He could never take them back.
He’d delivered the divorce papers to her the day before their fake mission had happened. There had been too much between them—too much sorrow, too much pain. He had thought she would get on with her life. He’d thought he’d be better living in darkness anyway.
But he had been a fool. Olivia hadn’t moved on, not like he’d hoped she would. And he’d been too long in the darkness. When he’d captured Iris and her organization had targeted Olivia, it had forced his hand, sending him back to her. He had known he’d have to return at some point, if for no other reason than to give her closure.
What he saw in her face right now wasn’t closure, though. It was a desperate attempt to return to normalcy. Something neither of them had felt in a very long time.
“I want to see you.”
Turning off the audio, which he realized he’d been only half listening to anyway, he said, “What?”
“I want to see the damage, what the bomb did to you.”
“No, you don’t, Olivia. It’s done and over with. I survived. That’s all that matters.”
She stood and went to him, holding out her hand. He took it, and she tugged him forward. He acquiesced and stood.
A strange light flared in her eyes. “Show me.”
He had removed his suit jacket and tie when they’d boarded the plane. Watching her closely, he unbuttoned his shirt, removed the cufflinks from his sleeves, and pulled his shirt off. The instant his shirt hit the floor, her hands were touching him. Her fingers traced the scars, created mostly from the shrapnel and a few flying objects as he’d run through the small cabin. The worst was a six-inch scar right below his heart. A piece of wood had pierced deep, missing his heart by an inch.
“How many stitches?” she whispered.
“Couple dozen.”
He told himself this moment was not sexual, but the rest of his body wasn’t getting the message. With each gentle touch of her fingers, desire flared hotter. Looking down, he watched the intensity of her expression. So serious, so sad.
She pressed her lips against the scar across his heart and said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not—”
Raising her head, her eyes shimmering with emotion, she whispered, “Turn around.”
She was breaking his heart. “Livvy, you don’t need to see this.”
“Yes, I do. I need to know.”
Sighing with resignation, he turned. He expected a gasp, even a curse. He knew it wasn’t pretty. The right side of his back was deeply scarred. Ridged and distorted, it spoke of unspeakable pain.
She touched him, and he jerked.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
He barely even thought about it anymore. The nerves had been damaged, and other than an occasional phantom pain, he felt nothing. He’d been unconscious much of the time it was healing and always counted himself lucky, because it could’ve been so much worse.
“Most of it is covered with a tattoo.”
“Had that done a few months ago.”
She traced the soaring hawk with her fingers, and Hawke closed his eyes, willing himself to not turn around and grab her. He wanted her with a fierceness that almost scared him. How was he going to live without her for the rest of his life if one touch from her delicate hand made him want to drop to his knees and hold on to her with all his might?
She pressed her face against the most scarred part of his back and said, “I’m so sorry, Nic.”
“Sweetheart, you have nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t do this.”
Seeming not to hear him, she said again, “I’m sorry…I’m sorry.” A sound like that of a tortured animal erupted from her throat, and she sobbed, “I’m so sorry.”
