Protection

Chapter 17

Marcus is not the friendly man he pretends to be. He is not the modest, self-effacing mayor he acts as.

He is a sadist who beat his wife and son into submission and got away with it.

"And all along he seemed like such a nice guy," I scoff. "'Hello, Beatrice. It is great to see you again. You look pretty tonight.' I can't believe I fell for that." I bury my face in my hands, wondering how I was so naïve that I couldn't see the brutality in his eyes all those times we were introduced.

"Trust me, he has everyone fooled. Don't feel too bad. It's what he does."

But I ignore him for a second, because suddenly my brain catches on to something.

"Eaton," I say, a smile growing as I watch his confused face. "That's your name. Tobias Eaton."

He shrugs it off, bouncing his foot impatiently. "Yeah, I'm not proud of it."

"I love it," I refute. "It fits well." He must only be thinking about how it connects him to his monster of a father. He doesn't see himself the way I do.

Suddenly, he stands and turns to face me, looking nervous. "There's one more thing," he declares, fidgeting with the bottom of his shirt. "You asked me a couple times why I never take my shirt off."

I nod. I have never understood his lack of self-confidence in this area. He is fit, so it is not like he has anything to be sheepish about.

I watch as he turns around, tugs on the collar of his shirt, and pulls it over his head to reveal his back. The sight drives me to my feet.

As expected, his back is muscular. However, that is the last thing I could care about because it is not the most prominent feature about him.

His whole back is defaced with deep, white scars. From the abuse, of course, why didn't I realize? I can't help but trace them with a soft, gentle touch, like they will hurt if I press too hard.

Marcus's violence has caused him to live not only with mental issues, but with physical reminders. Too many physical reminders to count.

And now I understand why he never removed his shirt. He didn't want people to stare, to ask questions. He didn't want to have to be judged by something he wants to forget.

I assume that he thinks they are hideous and impair him, but I see the beauty in them; I see survival and strength and more reason to love who he is.

So I show that to him. I step forward and wrap my arms around him, my hands coming in contact with his defined abdomen. Then I kiss a long, jagged scar that is marked at the perfect height for me, right below his neck.

Rotating back to see me, he stares down into my eyes, bewildered.

"Why?" he whispers.

And I think I know what he is asking, so I answer him the best I can.

"Because I love you," I reply. "Not only do I love your character and everything you stand for, as I have told you before, but I also love your impact on me. I love how you have changed me as a person by showing me the beauty in the little things that I no longer see as insignificant. I love how you make all the money I have not matter. Most of all, I love all of the things about you that you believe are flaws.

"And you know, I waited all this time to hear what your childhood was like, and now I realize that it doesn't matter. You're still the person I fell in love with either way. You're still my Tobias, and the past and a few scars aren't going to change that."

When I finish my monologue, he looks dumbstruck and isn't able to say anything. But he doesn't have to, because I receive his response in his kiss.

The shirt falls from his fist to the floor, forgotten. We collide, and my arms end up trapped in between our bodies, my hands pressed against his bare chest. In a flash, he lifts me up by the backs of my thighs and turns so that he is sitting on the bed with me straddling him.

We only stop for a moment to look in each other's eyes, a newfound mutual agreement reflecting back at us. And then, everything escalates from there.

His lips move passionately against mine, not gentle but not rough. When we have to pull back for air, I take the opportunity to throw a quick, curious glance down at him, since I have never seen him without a shirt. And boy, is he built...

But then we become needy again and go back in for more kissing. One of my hands moves to tangle in his dark hair for better leverage, while the other traces the scars on his back in appreciation rather than humiliation. His grip on me tightens; he moves upward, and I feel his hands on my waist under my shirt.

It makes me break away from him, and we both pant as our foreheads rest together, as my clouded mind works to comprehend everything.

I should be scared. When Peter tried to do this to me, I was horrified. I felt violated because I wasn't ready. And I don't know if I'm ready for such a leap now, but looking into Tobias's nearly black, innocent eyes reminds me of my belief in him, in us.

All doubt is erased. All uncertainty disappears.

I help him remove my shirt before continuing where we left off. Pretty soon, our shirts are not the only articles of clothing removed, and it turns into something far more intense.

But I'm not afraid.

He kisses any fears or uneasiness I might have away and whispers words of love and devotion. We become whole in a way that I never would have dreamed of; the connection we had before is enhanced dramatically. Because now, there are no barriers, there are no hindrances.

It is just him and me.