Page 77 of Beautiful Scars

We’ll fix that.

I lie down beside her, propping myself up on my elbow. My fingers trail a line down her body, and I don’t miss the hitch in her breath as I pass by her stomach.

I’m going to try to fix that, too.

“Do you want to know why I rebuilt it?” I ask her.

She knows what I’m talking about, but she chooses not to answer.

“Because nothing in this fucked up world that’s broken can’t be fixed. Not me, not you, not your fucking fort.”

I try my best to make her see that. I trail kisses and bites down her body while she squirms and tries to fight me.

When I get to her belly I can practically feel the panic in the room.

“Not even this,” I tell her.

I’d like to believe that. I’d like to believe that even the most messed up people, the most fucked up situations, the flimsiest little hidey-holes all have a chance at being fixed.

But she looks at me like I’m torturing her. Like me being close to whatever happened down here is just too much trauma for one person to take.

I stare at her while I try to think of what she needs. She said I’m good at that. She didn’t have to say it.

If this is what’s haunting her, then she needs me to take it away.

She needs me to be the bad guy.

Because the demons in your mind can’t bother you when you’re busy fighting the one in front of you.