His hands trace over your skin, slow and unhurried, until his fingers pause at the mark. The burn stretches from the side of your jaw down to your shoulder, a cruel reminder of the night you let Rook Van Doren too close.

You tense, your entire body locking up, but Rook doesn’t pull away. He tilts his head, studying the scar, his thumb grazing the uneven texture.

“I should’ve warned you,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. “Playing with me means getting burned.”

Your jaw tightens. “I didn’t play. You did this to me.”

Rook doesn’t argue. He doesn’t apologize, either. Instead, his fingers press just a little harder, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he never shies away from the damage he causes.

“You hate it.” It isn’t a question. He already knows.

You exhale sharply, trying to pull away, but his grip slides to your jaw, keeping you there. Not rough. Not gentle. Just enough to hold your attention.

“I do,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “It’s ugly.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Not guilt—Rook doesn’t do guilt—but something else, something darker. He leans in, his lips brushing the jagged edge of the scar, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“You think it’s ugly,” he murmurs. “I think it’s mine.”

The words shouldn’t send heat curling in your stomach, but they do. Because you know the truth.

No matter how much you hate the mark—

You can’t hate the hands that gave it to you.