Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a tortured, audible swallow, like he was as nervous as she was. The thought made her smile. “Touch me, Shane. Please?”

SHANE WAS NOT sure how he’d earned the honor of witnessing this woman’s strength and courage, nor the privilege of seeing her body and making her believe every part was beautiful. But he was determined to be worthy of both.

As much as he wanted to finally lay eyes and hands on her back, instinct told him to ease her into the exploration.

So he cupped her face in both hands and brought their lips together, which closed all the distance between their torsos, too. And, God, she was soft and warm against him, arousing and comforting at the same time. Kissing her softly, he let his hands drag down her throat and trace the fine line of her collarbones. From there, his fingers traveled over the curves of her shoulders and down her arms in a slow, teasing drag that made the fine hairs on her skin stand up.

Crystal trembled under his hands, but she stood firm, bright green eyes trained on his.

From her arms, Shane’s hands found the feminine curves of her waist. He smoothed his hands up and down from ribs to hips and back again, the heels of his palms caressing the sides of her breasts on each pass. Dragging his hands inward, he ran his knuckles over her smooth, flat belly, once again struck by how slight she was. It lured his protectiveness to the fore, reaffirming his commitment to do for her what it seemed no one had ever done before—take care of her, protect her, build her up.

On each upward stroke, Shane allowed his hands to brush the bottoms of her small breasts. Perfectly suited to her frame, he yearned to feel their warmth and their weight in his palms, to taste the pebbled flesh of her nipples in his mouth. But every instinct warned him to go slow and give her the chance to become accustomed to his intimate touch.

Shane had never wanted a woman so much, and they’d barely touched one another. With her gorgeous red hair and her flashing green eyes and her tight little body, Crystal was a total knockout. But it was the survivor in her that really spoke to his soul, that brought him peace and gave him purpose.

“You honor me with this trust, Crystal. I would never hurt you,” he said. This time, when his knuckles caressed her breasts, he turned his wrists and cupped the soft mounds in his hands.

Crystal jerked like he’d hurt her. “Wait. Stop.”

Shane tore his hands away and retreated a full step. “I’m sorry.” Damnit. He’d pushed too hard and fast again.

Breathing hard, she shook her head. “No. This isn’t right,” she said, her arm muscles tense, her hands fisted by her hips.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He bent and retrieved his shirt from the floor and handed it to her.

“No, it’s not that,” she said, stepping closer and rubbing her palm over her forehead. “I don’t know how to . . .” She dropped her face in her hands.

Shane was at a loss. If she hadn’t felt pressured, what accounted for the agitation rolling off her? “Talk to me, Crystal.”

“No. No, Shane. That’s just it.” Covering her breasts, she hugged herself, and the look of fear and despair on her face nearly broke his heart. What could— “I lied to you. My name isn’t Crystal.”

“Your name’s not Crystal?” he said, triumph surging through Shane’s blood so hard and so fast he could’ve roared it to the rooftops. He knew it. He knew it. Since that first night in her apartment, he’d known she’d lied about her surname, and he suspected “Crystal” had been part of her Confessions persona.

“Are you mad?”

Shane couldn’t hold back a smile. “Aw, darlin’, it’s okay. I suspected that from the beginning. I was just waiting for the day you felt comfortable enough to tell me. Come here,” he said, aching to comfort her. A hand in her hair, he pulled her into his embrace.

“You knew?” Her arms clutched at his back.

“I was pretty sure,” he said against her temple. Shane pulled away just enough to look her in the eyes. “I’m really happy you decided to tell me.” He smiled, a jolt of anticipation lancing through him, and realized she needed him to throw her a rope. He held out his hand and turned on his Southern charm. “Hi, I’m Shane McCallan. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

Her cheeks flamed but her smile was grateful. She took his hand. “Hi, Shane, I’m Sara Dean.”

Sara. Yeah. The name was real and sweet and feminine. “Sara Dean. A perfect name for such a beautiful girl.” Damn, but he was just about flying. This moment was why he’d told Marz not to reveal her name.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What for, Sara? Protecting yourself?” Shane shook his head, his chest full with emotion. “Never be sorry for that. If you hadn’t done such a good job all this time, we might never have had the chance to meet.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a molten-hot kiss that set his body on fire. The aggressiveness of her lips, the tightness of her grip, the yearning, needful moans spilling into his mouth reflected a woman taking a chance, taking charge, taking control. This woman, his Sara, was like a phoenix rising from the flames, and somehow this magical creature had pulled him inside the ring of fire and allowed him to stand witness to the miracle of her rebirth.

When she pulled away, they were both panting hard and smiling. It was a moment of such lightness and ease that Shane could’ve lived in it forever.

Sara—amazing how easily his brain accommodated to knowing the truth of the woman who held such sway over his heart—slipped her hand in his and squeezed. “There’s one more thing I need to share.” As Shane watched, she stepped around him, crossed the room, climbed on the bed, and stretched out on her stomach hugging a pillow beneath her head.

Showing Shane her scars. Letting him look his fill.

He knew battle-hardened warriors without that much courage and spirit.

But, aw, Christ. The injuries were worse than Shane had been able to feel by a factor of five. He hadn’t been wrong about the cause, though. Sara had been severely beaten. Multiple times with at least two instruments, he guessed.

A boulder parked itself on his chest, but he forced himself to move across the room and crawl up on the bed beside her.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing her hair over her right shoulder so that he could see the whole canvas of her back.

She turned her face toward him, but made no effort to make eye contact. “Yeah. Now, I am.”

“Will it bother you if I touch you there?”

“No. I can’t even feel some of it anymore.” And looking at where the deepest cuts had been and the most knotted scar tissue remained, Shane could guess where. “Do you really want to?” she asked, her voice a little grossed out.

Shane didn’t answer with words. And he didn’t explore with his hands.

Leaning over her, he pressed a firm kiss against the most gnarled scar just below her left shoulder blade. She gasped. “My beautiful Sara,” he said. Middle of her back, just left of her spine. Kiss. “Beautiful, beautiful Sara.” The tail end of the lowest scar. Kiss. “So very pretty.” As she trembled beneath him, he repeated the ritual for each distinct mark he could make out. Twenty-two in all. Seven darker, redder, deeper lines had been carved into her skin by one tool, and at least fifteen paler, flatter, stripes had been permanently etched into her skin by another.

Only when he’d kissed every one did he touch her with his hands, light strokes of his fingers and palms to learn the landscape of her. “Do you have lasting pain?” Shane asked, barely recognizing the almost hoarse voice that came out of him.

“My upper back gets fatigued easily if I try to carry too much,” she said in a low voice. “And my left shoulder always feels tight. Sometimes, there’s a lot of twingy achiness that comes out of nowhere.”

Lying on his side, Shane stretched out beside Sara, his face aligned with hers, his hand lightly stroking her back.

“Do you want to know?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Shane said, even though a part of him was already dying inside. Before the first words left her mouth, he reined himself in, slipping on his medic hat and borrowing a bit of the professional distance you were trained to develop when working life-or-death situations.

He didn’t want to scare her with his rage.

Slowly, almost mechanically, Sara recounted the downward spiral of events that spun out of her father’s arrest and the revelation of his massive indebtedness to the Church gang after his death in prison. The loss of her house, her belongings, her freedom. When she got to the moment when the first of the men had entered the basement room of Confessions, Shane turned onto his back and urged her to lay her head on his shoulder so he could hold her close. Over the course of four or five days, seven men came to Sara’s room. Often individually, once a group. She was raped, caned, and whipped before Bruno finally pulled her out, took her under his wing, and found her another way she could pay her father’s debts.

Shane’s chest burned with rage and regret. It was every worst-case scenario he’d imagined come to life. Prostitution, sexual slavery, forced labor. What hadn’t she gone through in the past four years? Sara’s voice drew him out of his thoughts.

Being forced to work at Confessions was when Sara slowly faded away. After Bruno’s rescue, she formally dropped out of college, cared for her teenage sister, and, at Bruno’s insistence, took on a new name. “By the time I realized what had happened to my life, it was too late to get it back again.”