Ashton isn’t paying any heed, turning my hand this way and that to examine it closer. “Looks clean.”

“Yeah, because you just bleached the shit out of it!”

“Relax. It’ll stop stinging soon. Distract yourself by staring at me while we wait for this to settle down. That’s how you got yourself into this mess to begin with . . .” Amused eyes flash to mine for a second before dropping back to my hand. “Nice combination there, by the way. ‘Fucking jackhole’? Really?”

“I meant it in the nicest possible way,” I mutter, but it isn’t long before I’m fighting my lips from curling into a smile. I guess it is kind of funny. Or it will be when I can walk again . . . Determined not to give in to temptation, I let my eyes roam the small bathroom, taking in the tiles in the glass shower stall, the soothing off-white walls, the white fluffy towels . . .

And then I’m back to Ashton’s body because, let’s face it, it’s so much more appealing than tile and towels. Or anything else, for that matter. I study the black Native American–style bird on his inner forearm. It’s big—a good five inches long, its details intricate. Almost intricate enough to hide the ridge beneath it.

The scar.

My mouth opens to ask but then firmly shuts. Peering up at the sizeable Chinese script on his shoulder, I can see another ridge skillfully covered. Another hidden scar.

I swallow the nausea rising in my throat as I think about the day my sister came home with a giant tattoo of five black ravens on her thigh. It covers one of the more unpleasant scars from that night. Five birds—one for each person who died in that car that night. Including one for her. I didn’t know what it meant at the time. She didn’t tell me until two years ago.

With a heavy sigh, my eyes shift to the symbol on his chest once again to study it more closely.

And see another ridge so expertly concealed.

“What’s wrong?” Ashton asks as he unwraps a bandage. “You’re pale.”

“What—” I catch myself before I ask what happened, because I won’t get an answer. I avert my gaze to my scraped hand to think. Maybe it’s nothing. It’s probably nothing. People get tattoos to cover scars all the time . . .

But everything in my gut tells me that it’s not nothing.

I watch him affix the bandage over the scrape. It’s no longer stinging, but I’m not sure whether that’s due to time or the fact that my mind is working on overdrive, twisting and turning the puzzle pieces to see how they fit together. But I’m missing too many. Simple things like that leather band . . .

The leather band.

The leather band.

It’s not a leather band, I realize, peering closely at it.

I grab Ashton’s hand and hold it up to inspect the thin dark-brown strap—the stitching around the edges, the way the two ends meet with little snaps—to see that it likely was a belt at one time.

A belt.

A small gasp escapes my lips as my eyes fly from his arm to his shoulder and finally land on his chest, at the long scars hidden beneath the ink.

And I suddenly understand.

Dr. Stayner says that I see and feel others’ pain more acutely than the average person because of what I went through with Kacey. That I react to it more intensely. Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s why my heart drops and nausea stirs in my stomach and tears trickle silently down my cheek.

Ashton’s low whisper pulls my attention to his face, to see the sad smile. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that, Irish?” I catch his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. I’m still holding his wrist, but he doesn’t pull away from my grasp. He doesn’t pull away from my stare. And when my free hand reaches up to settle on his chest, over the symbol, over his heart, he doesn’t flinch.

I want to ask so many questions. How old were you? How many times? Why do you still wear it around your wrist? But I don’t. I can’t, because the image of a little boy flinching against the belt beneath my fingertips brings the tears on faster. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right, Ashton? I won’t tell anyone,” I hear myself whisper in a shaky voice.

He leans in to kiss away one tear on my cheek and then another, and another, shifting toward my mouth. I don’t know if it’s the intensity of this moment—with my heart aching for him and my body responding and my brain completely checking out—but when his lips settle at the edge of mine and he whispers, “You’re staring at me again, Irish,” I automatically turn to meet them.

He responds immediately, wasting no time closing his mouth over mine, forcing it open. I taste the salt from my tears as his tongue slides in and curls against mine. One hand comes around to grip the back of my neck as he intensifies the kiss, pushing my head back to get closer, deeper. And I let him because I want to be close to him, to help him forget. I don’t worry about how I’m doing, whether I’m doing it right. It has to be right if it feels like this.

My hand never moves from his chest, from the heart that races beneath my fingers, as this single kiss seems to go on forever, until my tears are dry and my lips are sore and I’ve memorized the heavenly taste of Ashton’s mouth.

And then he suddenly breaks free, leaving me panting for air. ”You’re shivering.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I whisper. And I hadn’t. I still don’t.

All I notice is this pounding heart beneath my fingers and the beautiful face in front of me and the fact that I’m struggling to breathe.

Scooping me into his arms, he carries me out to his room, setting me down on his bed. With purpose, he marches over to his dresser, pushing his door shut as he passes. I don’t say anything. I don’t even look around the room. I simply stare at the definition of his back, my mind blank.

He walks over to drop a simple gray shirt and pair of sweatpants beside me. “These might fit you.”

“Thank you,” I mumble absently, my fingers running over the soft material, my mind reeling.

I can’t explain the next few moments. Maybe it’s because of what happened a month ago and what just happened in the bathroom, but when Ashton demands, “Arms up, Irish,” my body obeys like a well-trained soldier moving in slow motion. I gasp as I feel his fingertips curl under the bottom of my shirt and lift the damp material up, up . . . until it’s sliding over my head, leaving me in my pink sports bra. He doesn’t gawk at me or make some remark to make me nervous. He quietly unfolds the gray shirt next to me and pulls the collar over my head and then slides it down over my shoulders. My arms aren’t in it yet when Ashton kneels in front of me. Swallowing, I watch his face as his hands glide under the shirt to the back of my bra, deftly unhooking the clips, all while his eyes are on mine. Pulling it out to toss on the floor, he waits for me to ease into the sleeves.

“Stand,” he says softly, and again my body responds, putting one hand on his shoulder for support to protect my sprained ankle. The shirt is at least five sizes too big and it hangs halfway down my thighs. So when his hands reach up to seize the waistband of my pants and tug them down, I’m not exposed. But he’s still on his knees and his eyes are still locked on mine. They never wander. Not as my pants reach the floor. Not as his hands glide back up, gripping my thighs as they climb under my shirt to my underwear. A second gasp escapes me as his fingers hook under the elastic band. He pulls them down until they simply fall to the ground. With a sharp intake of air, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly for a moment before opening them.

“Sit,” he whispers, and I do.

He breaks his gaze just long enough to gently slip my damp clothes off around my injured ankle. Unfolding his track pants, he eases them around my ankles and pulls them up as far as he can. “Stand, Irish.” I do as asked, using him for support again as he slides them up and ties the drawstring tight. Never once touching me inappropriately.