"Stand up, Mara," Jason said, his voice low. He stretched his hand toward me.
I did not move. My legs would not work. His hand stayed out. His palm was up, waiting for me.
I swallowed, my throat was dry. I stood up slowly, my knees shook a bit. I did not take his hand, I just stood up and smoothed my uniform.
I looked at him and the sight of him made my stomach tighten. He was shirtless.
His chest was broad. A thin scar cut across his ribs, the scar was kind of old but clean. It pulled when he breathed. His left arm had tattoos. The tattoo was not a picture or image. It was words, it was long like a script. I couldn’t read it from where I stood.
His stomach was flat and divided. A thin gold chain rested against his collarbone. The smell of his cologne still lingered in the room. H
