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Cameron doesn’t say anything for a moment, until, “How often?”

I close my eyes. “Often enough. Whenever I didn’t meet expectations. Whenever I wasn’t tough enough. If I cried, if I complained, if I didn’t want to do something he thought I should do, he’d hit me. Open hand usually. Sometimes his belt. He called it discipline. Said his father did the same to him. Beaumont Ashford is a high-caliber asshole. The world sees a charming persona, but he only cares about himself. He wants to shape me into him.”

“Jesus, Lucien.”

Cameron’s breathing changes. I can feel the tension building in him.

“Where?” Cameron asks, his voice tight.

“Where what?”

“Where did he hit you?”

I open my eyes and look at him. His face is pale, his eyes wide.

“Mostly on my back. But he broke my nose when I was twelve. I lied to my mom about it and said I fell.” I touch my nose reflexively. “That’s why it’s slightly crooked. You probably noticed.”

Cameron reaches out and traces the bridge of my nose with his finger, so gentle it makes my chest ache.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “You know what? My name means crooked nose. Isn’t that funny?”

“Funny.” He doesn’t know that I Googled his name a long time ago and understood it, even then, to be a confirmation of our union.

He’s still running his finger down the bridge of my nose when I catch his hand and press it against my cheek. “It’s not a big deal, Cam. Really. It’s just how it is down there. Old Southern families, old ways of doing things. My father thinks violence makes men strong. That pain builds character.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I was happy to go to Scotland because it meant getting away from him. Four years of boarding school where no one hit me. Where I could just…be.”

Cameron doesn’t say anything. He just slides down and scoots closer, laying his head on my chest. His hair tickles my skin when he moves.

I stroke his hair, the soft strands slipping through my fingers.

“It doesn’t bother me anymore,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I’m bigger than him now. Stronger. He hasn’t touched me since I was sixteen. And to be honest, maybe it did make me stronger. Maybe I needed it to become who I am.”

Cameron kisses my chest, right over my heart.

The gesture unleashes something I’ve kept locked away for years.

I close my eyes and keep stroking his hair, feeling the weight of his care, his concern. No one has ever looked at me the way Cameron does.

“I don’t want you around him,” Cameron says quietly.

I open my eyes and look down at him. “What?”

“Your father. I don’t want you around him without me there.”

Something warm and overwhelming floods through my chest. “Cam⁠—”

“I’m serious.” He lifts his head to meet my gaze, and his eyes are fierce, protective. “If he’s there, I’m there. I don’t care if you’re bigger than him now. I don’t care if he hasn’t hit you in years. I don’t want you alone with him.”

I laugh, surprised and genuinely amused. “That’s cute, baby. You think I need protecting?”

His expression is serious. “Maybe.”

I pull him closer, kissing his forehead. My heart is pounding. I’ve never had anyone want to protect me before. Never had anyone care enough to even try.

“If anything, I protect you,” I say softly, but even as I say it, I know it’s not entirely true. We protect each other. That’s what this is. Cam doesn’t argue. He just settles against my chest.