Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance by Lilian Monroe

Ice Queen: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance by Lilian Monroe

Author:Lilian Monroe [Monroe, Lilian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-02-01T00:00:00+00:00


14

Asher

My fingers drift over Penelope’s skin as I nuzzle my lips into her neck. She tastes sweet, and I know we’ve just shared something special.

Her eyes drift over my neck, following the jagged edge of my scar all the way down to my hip. She runs her fingers over the skin as I try my best not to wince.

No one’s touched me like this before—almost reverently. Flicking her eyes up to meet my gaze, Penelope smiles. “You look like some kind of gladiator,” she whispers. Her hands sweep around my back, and there’s no disgust in her face. No hesitation at touching the scarred skin.

It covers a third of my body, and Penelope…likes it?

I try not to frown as she lets her hands drift over me, struggling to understand how she could see me as anything more than damaged. Because isn’t that what I am? Broken? Marred?

“Do you remember the fire?” Pen asks, smoothing her palm over my shoulder and sliding it up to my neck. Her thumb teases my jaw, and I lean down to nip the tip of her finger, grinning when she yelps.

I nod. “I do.”

Biting her lip, Penelope glances at me through long lashes. “What was it like?”

“Terrifying.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but there’s no pity in her voice.

I lean over to hand her the discarded shorts and top, then help her slip on her robe. Pulling my own pants up over my hips, I shrug. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but I had just left the day before. If I’d stayed…”

“I wouldn’t have been moping in my room missing you when the fire started?” I grin, teasing. Penelope’s face falls, as if I’ve just spoken her deepest fears. “Hey,” I say, sliding my hands over her hips. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Did it hurt?” Her brows draw together, and for the first time, I feel like someone really wants to hear about that day.

People have asked me about it, of course, but there’s always been some sort of sick curiosity underlying their words. Behind their well-meaning stares full of pity and sadness, there’s always a hint of pleasure at my misfortune, like they’re watching a gruesome true crime documentary play out on my face. Those conversations always leave a bitter coating in my mouth.

With Penelope, there’s none of that. She asks me about the fire as if she wants to know—not because she wants to feel better about herself or because she wants to pity me, but because she truly wants to understand what it was like that day at boarding school.

Roughing my hand through my hair, I take a deep breath. “Yeah, it hurt,” I finally answer, my thoughts faraway. It’s like remembering an old movie, as if my brain has shielded me from the true horror of that day. “I was stuck on the top floor, and I ended up crawling down the stairs to the entrance. The fire was blocking my path.”

Penelope’s hands reach for my chest, drawing soft circles over my skin.



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