scars

Isabella

I squirmed, the urge to escape clawing at me. I couldn't let him see me like this, so exposed, so weak. What if he saw the scars? Wouldn't that just confirm everything I feared? That I was nothing but a worthless omega, forced into this marriage by fate's cruelty?

"Stop moving around." His voice, rough and low, was like a warning, and I froze. His breath brushed against my ear, sending a shiver through me, and my knees went weak. I could feel him, his presence overwhelming me, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist, holding me against him. His eyes—red, filled with a burning rage—stared at me through the mirror, and I couldn't look away.

Why was he so angry? Was it because of me? Because I was weak, fragile? I tried to move again, tried to speak, but only muffled sounds came out. His hand was still over my mouth, blocking my voice, suffocating my words.

"Let me go," I whispered, but he didn't respond. His arms stayed around me, his touch making my skin tingle, both terrifying and intoxicating. My heart raced, my mind swirling with fear and a strange, burning desire.

I glanced up, his eyes were still closed. But as soon as I met his gaze in the mirror, they snapped open—redder, darker, filled with something I couldn't place. "Who?" His voice was a growl, the single word sending a chill down my spine. It was a question, but it felt like a command.

"Huh?" I blinked, lost in the intensity of his gaze, my thoughts muddled by his presence.

"Who did this to you?" The words came out slowly, each one like a punch to my chest, his eyes burning darker with every syllable. My mind raced. I looked to the floor and didn't answer. How could I say that the bimbo attacked me? He wouldn't buy it.

He cupped my face. " Isabella... why are you tongue tied?" He asked and as if a new realization hit him his face distort.

" Or maybe this is one of you tactics?" He asked with a frown.

Tactics? Did he think I had done this to myself? That I was trying to make him angry on purpose?

I froze, my heart pounding. Was he really asking me that? Did he really think I'd do this to myself just to get his attention?

I laughed—bitter and harsh. It wasn't the kind of laughter I'd ever expected from myself, but I couldn't stop it. How could he think that? How could he look at me like I was some kind of attention-seeking fool?

"You think I did this?" My voice was low, shaky with hurt.

I took his hand in mine and rexkless made him touch the bruise.

"You think I'd hurt myself for your attention? Why didn't I do it earlier, when you ignored me? Why didn't I show up at your workplace and make you notice me then? Who are you? Do you even deserve me doing that to myself?" My words spilled out in a rush, fueled by the anger and pain that had been building inside me.

His eyes remained cold, unreadable, like he was shutting me out, fighting something I couldn't understand. I could see the struggle in him—he was resisting the bond, pushing against it, while I was the one still clinging to it, helpless.

I shoved his hand away recklessly, and it hit the basin with a sharp sound. I didn't care. I couldn't care. I wouldn't.

He stp

"Get out." My voice was quieter now, almost numb. "I didn't call you here. You came in on your own. Leave. I need to deal with my wounds."

He didn't move. His eyes flickered to his hand, where he'd struck the basin, and for a moment, I felt a brief pang of regret. Had I hurt him? I shook it off quickly. He didn't deserve my concern.

I turned to leave, but his arms were around me in an instant, lifting me back onto the counter. My heart skipped in my chest as I grabbed onto his shoulders for support, startled, confused.

" What do you want now?" I spat.

He ignored my words and instead said,

"Isabella," his voice was low, dangerously calm, as he stared at me with those piercing eyes. "Where did you get those scars from?"

He found them. He found the scars inflicted bt my father on me. What should I do?