Draven’s wounds were healing at an astonishing rate, a testament to his supernatural resilience. Yet, even when the angry red faded into a pale, barely-there pink, my heart still constricted with a painful clench every time my eyes landed on it. His beautiful face, once so flawless, was now marred because of me. Because I hadn't been strong enough to deal with my own demons, and that hurt me far more deeply than any of my own physical injuries. Draven, being Draven, could sense the tidal wave of guilt washing over me. So, every single morning, he would gently cup my face, his thumb tracing the faint line of my own scar, before pressing a tender kiss to his. “I like it,” he’d murmur, his voice a low rumble against my ear, “that we’re matching. It’s our scar, as a couple.”
His words, imposs
