The taste of forbidden

9. Scars. [Part 2]

The splash is loud and scandalous, water soaks me from head to toe.

I struggle to get out of the water, searching for the surface through flailing and thrashing. Once we emerge, the asshole in front of me looks at me unbothered, his expression cold while he gives me that smug, arrogant look, as if saying he won this war.

I wring out my long braid as I glare at him.

But I don’t say a word. I know that’s what he hates most—when I deprive him of my words. Being ignored seems to be something he can’t stand, so I use that Achilles’ heel and push him over the edge.

When I let the silence shield me, his frown deepens, and indignation fills him.

"It can't be that you're the one who's mad," he starts, but I ignore him and walk toward the edge. "Come on, you started this, Lia!"

Again, I say nothing.

The jeans I'm wearing are heavy, and the shirt clings annoyingly to my skin.

"You’re the one who owes me an apology, you spoiled brat!"

I don’t even look at him as I undo my braid, grab my new hat, and place it on my head.

When I begin to walk away, he yells, "Don’t ignore me, f**k!"

I hide my smile as I walk off, joy bubbling in my chest.

He sounds so pissed off I can’t help but feel satisfied.

"Lia… Lia, what are you doing?" I keep ignoring him, moving instead toward his mare. "LIA!"

How hard can riding a horse be?

All I know is I want him to go home just like this, soaked to the bone, the whole hour it takes to walk back on foot.

Because I won’t do it. I won’t walk back.

I look at the imposing mare in front of me, stroke her snout, and push myself up to…

Two hands grab my waist and throw me backward.

"Are you f*****g crazy?"

I push my hat back to look him in the face.

"I’m not going home soaked like this!" I yell at him, because he’s out of his mind if he thinks I’ll let him ride off calmly on horseback while I walk home, dripping wet and flashing my bra.

For the first time, he seems to notice how see-through my shirt is now.

Becket looks away, mutters a curse under his breath, and starts taking off his shirt, which, though soaked, will give me a bit more coverage. He tosses it at me in one motion, and I catch it, pulling it over my torso to cover myself.

"You complicate my life so much, woman."

I laugh ironically but still don’t say a word as I button his shirt. It has a soft smell of wood and hay. It’s not cologne, more like his scent, the scent of the world he lives in.

"f*****g hell, Lia, can you say at least one damn word?"

I lift my eyes to look at him with defiance, but stop when I catch sight of his bare chest.

A knot the size of a rock swells in my throat.

He, unaware of what I’m seeing, keeps arguing.

"You can’t go around pulling s**t like some damn child and expect nothing to happen in return. And you’re the one who’s mad? How proud are you? Who the hell do you think you—"

He stops when my hand touches him.

My cold fingers press against one of the brutal, painful scars that cross his chest.

There are at least seven.

Seven long, already pale scars marking his skin.

The air thickens between us as I take another step forward. My fingers tremble along the line of one of the lash marks across his skin. My throat aches with a trapped sob, my heart breaking in the cruelest way.

"Who did this to you, Becket?" I ask, my voice too small, too quiet.

It’s like a train wreck—I can’t look away from those marks, those wounds, that story, no matter how much it hurts.

Lucas had one exactly like it… on his back.

"Do you have more?" I whisper very softly.

"I think you already know the answer," his voice is rougher than usual, like he, too, has a thousand emotions stuck in his chest.

I close my eyes, shaking my head gently in denial.

His back.

A shiver runs down my body at the thought of the brutal suffering he must’ve endured.

Every time I asked Lucas about the obvious whip scar on his back, he would change the subject or distract me somehow. Seeing that sign of torture used to break my heart. But the m******e on Becket’s body? God, it’s too much.

His isn’t a single whip mark—there are at least seven… seven painful, permanently tattooed scars.

And I haven’t even seen his back yet.

As I slowly process what this means, I curl my fingers slightly over his scars and lift my eyes to his.

He stares at me motionless, his chiseled jaw more defined than ever. There’s pain held in his eyes, but also restraint, like he’s struggling not to break under my gentle touch.

Has anyone ever cared for him?

The question’s at the tip of my tongue, even though I already know the answer.

My gaze drops to his lips, and he tenses, knowing exactly what I’m looking at.

Becket turns his face away when I raise my hand to him. Despite his resistance, my palm follows, tentatively cupping his cheek dusted with the start of a beard. He tries to pull away, but I don’t let him. All my attention is on his mouth, on something I can’t keep ignoring anymore.

The scar on his upper lip.

How many marks are on his skin?

I furrow my brows, feeling his pain as if it were mine, while his eyes close and his expression tightens in what anyone else might think is slight pain… but no, it’s deep, down to the bone.

His suffering comes from far within.

The tips of my trembling fingers brush the scar on his lip, the touch almost imperceptible, but his expression contorts further until it’s impossible to ignore.

"Who were you protecting when they did all this to you?" I ask, breathing shakily. My whole being is trembling, my soul crumbling under the weight of what this implies.

Becket slowly shakes his head, his eyes squeezing shut, pain etched into every part of him.

So much pain.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, so I close it, lick my lips, and try again.

"And while you were protecting him, who was protecting you, Beck?"

A shaky sigh escapes him, a warm breath that brushes against my palm, and I curl my fingers once more against his skin.

"How can you believe Lucas didn’t love you?" I whisper, my voice hoarse with the emotions caught in my chest. "How can you doubt that he wanted to be here, with you? Maybe he didn’t stay away because he hated you, maybe he stayed away because seeing you hurt too much."

I knew my husband. I knew Lucas. I’ve tried to figure out over and over his past, his motivations, the why of all this.

And I only know it deep inside.

At first, Lucas left angry, but what if he never came back because of this?

Because seeing Becket hurt him.

Because he couldn’t stand seeing everything that happened.

Because the memories were too much to bear.

"You were both victims," I whisper, leaning my face toward his so he hears me clearly. "You and him, do you understand?"

His eyes open and fix on mine. For the first time since I met him, something in him reminds me of Lucas. It’s not even the color of his eyes—Lucas’s were far lighter than Beck’s dark blue. But the trauma and suffering in that gaze? It’s the same as my husband’s, the same Lucas let me see when his walls came down and his cheerful facade faded.

Lucas loved Becket with every ounce of his being.

And for the first time since I got here, I start to understand and feel that love.

[2/2]