Chapter 390
[ 517 words ]
Chapter 390:
Caroline released his arm, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as she saw the slight indentation her teeth had left on his skin. Her resolve, however, did not waver. She softened her approach, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
“Please, Jarrod,” she said, her tone shifting from demanding to pleading. “I need to see. I need to know you’re okay.”
That was what finally broke him. Not the threat, not the bite, but the raw, undisguised vulnerability in her voice. He let out a slow breath and gave a single, resigned nod.
She took a deep breath of her own, as if preparing for a difficult procedure. Her fingers, steady now, reached for the top button of his shirt. She began to unfasten them, one by one, using her left hand while maneuvering carefully around the bulky, rigid contours of the field splint that immobilized his right arm against his torso. Her movements were slow, almost reverent. It felt less like undressing him and more like unwrapping a fragile, dangerous secret.
Jarrod’s jaw tightened. He closed his eyes, his body tense, as if bracing for an impact.
The last button came free. Caroline gently parted the rough fabric of his shirt. She had to work with surgical precision, shifting the fabric with one hand while keeping the shirt from snagging on the stiff edges of the splint strapped to his right side. She pushed the heavy cotton back, revealing the chaotic reality beneath.
And then she saw it.
A sharp, strangled gasp escaped her lips. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
His chest was a roadmap of violence. A landscape of pale, silvery scars and angry, puckered tissue. Old bullet wounds, long slashes from knives, the jagged patterns of shrapnel. Each mark was a testament to a life lived on the brink of death.
W𝗵a𝘵 𝗲𝗏e𝗋уоn𝘦 𝘪ѕ 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝘥іո𝗴 o𝘯 𝘨аl𝗻o𝘷𝗲𝗅ѕ.𝖼o𝗆
But it was the new injury that stole her breath.
On his left side, just over his heart, was a fresh, brutal wound. It was closed with thick, black sutures, the skin around it an angry red and purple. It was still weeping slightly, a clear fluid mixed with blood staining the makeshift dressing beneath. This was no “scratch.” This was a wound that could have, should have, killed him.
The tears came then, hot and unstoppable. They streamed down her face, silent and furious. This was the man who had torn his world apart to come back to her. He had crossed oceans, defied orders, all while carrying this inside him.
Her hand, trembling uncontrollably, reached out. Her fingertips ghosted over the scarred terrain, barely touching his skin. She could feel the heat radiating from the new wound. Each scar she traced felt like a story she would never know, a pain she could never have shared.
Jarrod opened his eyes. He saw the tears tracking through the grime on her face, saw the absolute horror in her expression. He moved to pull his shirt closed, but his right arm remained locked in the splint against his ribs, rendering him unable to assist. “Don’t look,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s ugly.”
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