He paused, and his brows lifted. A glint lit his eyes. She’d almost forgotten how Win loved a challenge. Proof, she supposed, of her exhaustion. But he’d have a fight on his hands. The glint in his eyes grew. “Do you suppose I’ve come to ravage you, Boadicea?” His finely shaped lips twitched, and her face heated.
“Again, you mean?”
His smile fell. “I dishonored you. And it shames me to my soul.”
And like that, her ire left her. He spoke of honor. She had clearly forgotten hers as well. Blast it, but she shouldn’t have let him wander the ship alone. No matter what personal strife had arisen between them, it was still her duty to protect Win. Even if he hated her for it. She could only be thankful that he’d returned in one piece. Damn it all.
He did not give her a chance to reply before he whipped his shirt over his head and tossed it away.
Her breath left her. Not since he’d first been attacked had she seen his torso. He hadn’t allowed it. He stood stock-still and let her drink in her fill of him. Despite his sudden reveal, or perhaps because of it, she looked not at his chest, but at his face. His jaw was set and hard as he gazed at a spot on the wall.
“Go on,” he said, “look at me.”
Good God, but he’d changed. Gone was the lithe torso. In its place, a network of corded muscle reigned. He was still lean; his body would never run to pure bulk, but the definition and the strength had increased, and he’d added a good fifteen pounds to his frame. She’d known this before he’d taken his shirt off, but seeing the bare results was another matter. A part of her mourned the loss of his earlier self, though this newer Win intrigued her as well. He was a study of power tempered by grace. “You’re bigger,” she said inanely.
He made a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort. And she realized that she’d missed the point of this exercise entirely. Taking a breath, she looked over the scars that marred his fine, ivory skin. It had been bad, his attack. Thick, ropey scars covered his left pectoral muscle, shoulder, and forearm, while thinner, redder slashes crisscrossed over his rippling abdomen and the swell of his biceps. He’d been so close to death.
Unable to help herself, she rose onto her knees and reached out to trace the thick slash just over his heart. His warm skin twitched at the contact, but he held still.
“You’ve healed well, Win.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “You keep saying that. Don’t.” His voice was a whip of censure.
“It is the truth,” she snapped back.
He took a step forward, the action sending her palm against his chest. “Don’t patronize me. Just look at me. Look at what I’ve become.”
White lined the livid red scars on his face as he glared at her.
“I am looking,” she said, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her hand. “What would you have me say, Win?”
“That I am deformed. That I will never be the same again.”
“No. That would be patronizing you. And what I cannot understand is why you want me to do so.” His breath left in a hiss as he stepped even closer. So close that his nose almost bumped hers. Poppy did not back away. “Why do you want my pity, Win? Or is it that you want me to turn away in disgust?” Her eyes searched his, and it became a chore to speak. “Do you want me to be the one to end this so that you don’t have to?”
They stared at each other, neither of them daring to move. And then he took a deep breath as his eyes closed. “I don’t know.” His head fell forward, and his forehead rested on hers. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Nothing could stop her then from wrapping her arms about him and pulling him closer. He fell into her, his arms twining about her waist in a hard grip, his fingers grabbing the loose folds at the back of her nightgown. Something within her sighed in relief at his hold and the feel of his body pressed against her. They’d always fit together so well. Hugging him made her feel safe, feel needed as well. So many people needed her, and yet never for this basic sort of comfort. They needed her to