Burn (Bayonet Scars #5)

“Tell me where you’re at,” he says quietly. He tucks my hair behind my other ear as well. I let out a soft, unintentional sigh. I barely hear the question—or order rather—and instead have all my attention focused on his touch. Being able, and even wanting, to be touched is such a wonder. “Tell me I help.”


There’s such a vulnerability about him in this moment as his fingers lightly weave through my messy hair and he asks for reassurance. My breath halts in my lungs. I both loathe and love the sound of his plea. I didn’t even know he was capable of this. Ian is always so strong for me that I think I sometimes forget he’s human.

“I need you.” The words come out on a whisper. I should be mortified, but I’m not. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever said.

He’s silent. Too silent. I don’t like it. His eyes tell me he’s a million miles away, and with every moment that passes, he seems to get further and further away.

I lift my hand to touch his cheek but stop, thinking better of it. I just . . . want to touch him. I want to initiate touch. I just don’t know if he’s going to be okay with it. More than worrying about upsetting him, I fear I may never heal past this point if I don’t act now. So I let the tips of my fingers touch his jaw.

He sucks in a sharp breath and instantly, he’s back with me. Focused deep-brown eyes practically dive into my soul. I want to look into his eyes, I want to drink him in, but it’s too much. My eyes are back on my fingertips as they ghost across his cheek up to the side of his nose. They travel over his nasal bridge so slowly, lovingly, and across the ridge of his brow. I can barely contain the excitement at the prospect of what I’m about to do, what I’ve wanted to do for months. At the outer edge of his brow, I watch my fingers slide down to the corner of his eye. The raised, damaged skin is rough to the touch. Uncomfortable even. My fingers have traveled halfway across the scar to his ear before his hand shoots up and he pulls away from my touch.

“You don’t like people touching your scars.” I get it. I don’t like people touching my scars either. I just couldn’t help myself.

“I don’t like the pity that comes with that scar.” Despite the rushed, almost angry way the words come out, his voice is still soft. Even when he’s uncomfortable, he’s gentle with me. Maybe too gentle.

“It’s not pity,” I say. I always thought he got the scar that runs from the corner of his eye to his ear from some kind of club-related run-in. I might have pitied him when I first found out the truth—that his mother’s ex, his siblings’ father, sliced his little six-year-old face up—but that was before I knew him. I like him just the way he is—scars and all. “It’s acceptance. You are who you are because of your scars.”

He nods his head after what feels like a long time but is probably just a moment or two. I’ve done everything but write Mindy loves Ian on my freaking forehead, and all the man does is nod. I’m such an idiot. While I’m beating myself up for falling for a guy whose primary means of communication is a head nod, Ian goes about placing the helmet on my head, securing the strap beneath my chin, and making sure it fits properly. To my surprise, it fits almost perfectly.

“What about your helmet?” I ask, looking around for another helmet. There isn’t another one, though.

“Don’t need one.” Ah, it’s another one of his double standards. I want to ask about those but decide I’ve pushed his communication capabilities enough for one day. I want Ian to feel comfortable opening up to me, and that won’t happen if I try to force it.

Placing my hands on Ian’s shoulders, I swing an unsteady leg over the bike. I settle on the small, raised passenger seat and make sure my feet are on the pegs as they’re supposed to be. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to hang on when this thing gets moving, but I can’t back out now.

Be brave.

There’s several inches of space between my legs and Ian’s back, so I wiggle forward until the insides of my knees comfortably meet the leather of his cut. My hands drag down his shoulders to the curved patch that says FORSAKEN. I don’t give too much time to it and continue on my path. I pause at the rough, worn feel of the beautifully stitched patch at the center of the leather. I’ve done a little research on the club but haven’t found much. I’ve even managed to get a bit out of my dad, who grouched that, unlike some clubs, Forsaken doesn’t have much of an online presence, making it more difficult to find out what they’re up to. The little bit I did find out is mostly stuff I don’t want to know.

“She gets loud. You’ll feel her when I start her up.”

“I’ll be okay.”