Zayn’s torso was a roadmap of scars. Jagged lines crisscrossed his skin, some were old and fading but others were still pink. Burn marks dotted his ribs. A particularly brutal scar ran from his collarbone to his hip, thick and ropey.
Lily’s eyes widened. Her fingers hovered over his chest, not quite touching. She’d seen glimpses before, but never like this. Never the full extent of what he’d endured.
“Every scar tells a story,” Zayn said quietly. “Like yours.”
He pointed to a circular burn mark near his shoulder. “Your father liked his cigars. This one was for trying to escape the first month. He mixed in silver leaves to ensure they left marks on my skin.”
Lily’s face crumpled. She knew her father’s cruelty firsthand, but seeing it etched into another’s flesh made her stomach turn.
Zayn traced a long, thin line across his abdomen. “Xavier’s favorite silver knife. He used to make small cuts, just enough to bleed but not enough to heal quickly.”
