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His body is chiseled to perfection. The lines of his abs are something straight out of a movie. His legs are just as muscular as the rest of him. When he pulls his boxers down, his cock juts out as if it’s mocking me. It’s large and thick. The piercing at the head glints in the light.

I can’t believe that it fit inside of me.

He crawls onto the bed behind me and slaps my ass cheeks so hard that I cry out.

“Make that noise again. It’s music to my ears, my moon,” he coos as he slaps them again. I moan because I can’t help it. My body can't help it. I look into the mirror and see him staring down at my body—the arch of my back, the curve of my hips. He stares down for a long moment before he speaks again.

“I’m not sure how I missed this,” he says gently as his fingers run over the scar there. “Who did this to you?” The words leave his mouth, but the actions he’s playing out are far from the topic at hand.

He holds tightly onto my hips like a rollercoaster ride— I’m sure I’ll have bruises to show— and slams into me. I’m so wet that he slides in with such ease, but it doesn’t take away from the pain of him intruding into my body so harshly. A yelp escapes me, and my body shakes with pleasure as he slams into me over and over.

“I asked you a question. Who. Did. This. To. You?” He grunts.

“M-my f-father,” I stutter helplessly.

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

“My father!” I yell out, mixed with a moan.

“When?”

“I was seven,” I manage to say between the ruthless thrusts. Tears form in my eyes. A mixture of all the feelings inside of me. The aching and pleasurable force on my body. The intrusion into my mind.

“Why?” His thrusts only get harder. I hadn’t thought they could. It’s as if the anger he’s feeling from my words is fueling his tempo.

“I would go outside to play, but I would sneak back in too late. H-he would c-catch me,” I try to say the words, but he hits that sweet spot inside me repeatedly, making it hard for me to speak. “My parents were addicts. I don’t know why he did it. I was just a little girl,” I cry. Tears fall, and I know for sure why this time—the admission.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. My parents send me money every month, but…” I trail off for a moment, but he waits. “I don’t know where they are.”

I keep watching Jax in the mirror as his hands run over my body. His eyes raking me up and down.

“There’s other ones,” he says as his thrusts slow until he’s no longer moving. Jax’s emerald pools find my icy waters in the mirror. “Small bumps, circles. What are they?”

“Cigarette burns,” I murmur. I want to be away from him. I don’t want Jax inside of me while we have this conversation.

“Your father, too?” His cock throbs inside of me, itching to move, but he remains still. I shake my head. “Your mom?” He inquires. I nod my head.

“Do they make you feel ugly? Unwanted?” His question throws me so off guard and brings more unwelcomed tears to my eyes.

I try to fight myself off of him, but he holds me to him like glue is keeping us together.

“You’re going to come to learn, Luna, that when I finish speaking, it’s your cue to answer.”

“Yes. They make me feel that way,” I squeak.

“Do they hurt?”

“Inside,” I whisper. I expect some remark from Jax, but all I get is being pulled up until my back is flush with his chest. His skin is warm against mine, sticky with sweat, and it seems to ease the cold inside of me. My face turns away from his reflection.

“Look in the mirror, Luna,” he growls. My head doesn’t turn back. I can’t look at him.

He’s weaved himself into my brain, breaking down the barrier I’ve created to keep the past hidden away. He reaches one hand up to my chin and turns my head so I’m staring directly at him.

“Look at yourself,” he begins to say as he moves his hips. My eyes move up and down as I take in my pale skin. The J from his knife is still a faint mark above my hipbone. Jax pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Tears still run down my cheeks in slow strokes, but they begin to fade away.

“Look how pretty you are, baby. Every inch of you is something worth seeing. You aren’t ugly. You aren’t unwanted. The marks on your body are a story, a bad one, but they aren’t who you are,” Jax tells me, his voice deep and dark.