Chapter 11 - Scars and Confessions
Late that evening, Lena was sitting by the dying embers of the fireplace when the bedroom door clicked open. Marco walked in. He smelled of rain, gunpowder, and Scotch. He looked utterly exhausted, a king carrying the weight of a kingdom carved in blood.
He didn't say a word. He walked to the washbasin in the corner, scrubbing his hands with soap and hot water, watching his own dark reflection in the mirror above.
Lena stood up slowly, her pain manageable now without the heavy sedatives. She walked over to him, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. She took the towel from the rack and gently placed it into his dripping hands.
Marco stopped. He looked down at her, his dark eyes searching her face for any sign of fear or judgment. "You know what happened down there today."
"I heard the shot," Lena said softly.
"He was my cousin," Marco said, his voice flat, hollowed out by grief and rage. "We played together as boys. And I put a bullet in his brain because he tried to take what is mine."
He stepped away from the sink, turning his back to her as he began to unbutton his damp shirt. Lena didn't turn away. When the fabric dropped to the floor, she inhaled sharply.
His back was a map of old violence—jagged knife scars across his ribs, bullet wounds on his shoulder, and burns that had healed years ago. He was a man made of armor and pain.
Without thinking, Lena reached out, her cool fingertips gently touching a raised scar across his right shoulder blade.
Marco flinched, his entire body going rigid. "Don't," he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion he couldn't control. "I am a monster, Lena. You shouldn't touch me."
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"Monsters don't sit by hospital beds for three days straight," Lena said, her hand remaining on his scarred skin, offering warmth instead of fear. "Monsters don't care if a stray dog lives or dies."
Marco turned around slowly, catching her hand against his chest, right over his beating heart.
