Page 150 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“You took your shoes off.”

She looks down at her bare feet in the grass as if she’s only just noticed them. Her chin lifts a fraction. “Isn’t the water too cold to be swimming in?”

“Why don’t you come find out for yourself?”

I hold her gaze for one moment, then I turn and push back out into the current.

I don’t look back. I swim to the far bank, turn, start the return length, and I am not thinking about whether she’ll do it. Sophie doesn’t respond to pressure. She never has. She responds to choice—to the door being left open and nobody standing in it.

I’m halfway back when my feet find the bottom. I stand, push my hair out of my face, and look up.

Sophie is stepping into the water.

She’s in a plain black bra and underwear, and she’s walking in with her chin up and her eyes forward as if cold water is just another thing that doesn’t get to tell her what to do.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’ve seen her body. I’ve seen the scars. But that’s not what I’m seeing now. It’s the curve of her hips, the fullness of her thighs, the way her breasts move as she walks. She trains like a fighter and moves like a weapon, but there’s a softness underneath all of it that no amount of training can erase, and I want to put my mouth on every inch of it.

I look away and force my eyes to the bank, where her shirt and jeans are left in a neat stack with her shoes set precisely beside them, which is so entirely her that I almost smile.

It doesn’t help. I can still see her in my peripheral vision, and I am in serious trouble.

“Sophie—” Her name comes out before I can stop it.

She looks up. Her eyes are bright—lit with something close to mischief. “What?” she says. “You told me to find out for myself.”

“It’s really cold.”

She keeps walking. The water climbs to her knees, her thighs, her waist, and I watch her face for the wince, the gasp⁠—

She barely shivers. Her eyes find mine across the water, slightly teasing, one corner of her mouth pulling.

“It’s not that cold.”

I stare at her. “You’re insane.”

She tilts her head. The morning light catches the water on her face, her shoulders, and I am doing a very poor job of not staring.

Then she drops her hand beneath the surface and sends a wall of water directly at my face.

I don’t move fast enough. It hits me full in the chest, and by the time I’ve wiped my eyes she’s already laughing—a real, full laugh, the one I’ve been catching glimpses of for weeks and never quite seen at full volume. It transforms her face. Her eyes crease at the corners, and she looks young and delighted and entirely without armor.

I splash her back.

She shrieks, and the sound startles a laugh out of me. She retaliates immediately, both hands churning the water toward me, and I’m laughing harder than I have in years. I lunge forward and catch her wrists before she can send another wave.

The moment my hands close around her wrists, we both stop.

She’s in front of me, her chest rising and falling fast, her hair half-soaked and curling at the ends. Water moves around us both. The laughter fades from her face slowly, replaced by awareness—of my hands on her wrists, of how close we are, of the fact that we’re both half-naked and neither of us is pulling away.

I can see her freckles clearly now. Three across her nose, one high on her cheekbone.

Her breath comes out shaky, but her eyes stay on mine.

“Sophie,” I say softly, my eyes dropping to her lips before I can stop them. “Let’s go to the house. I’d really like to kiss you, but if I start out here I’m not going to be able to stop, and I’d rather not do this in a river where the water is—” I glance down. “—doing absolutely nothing to help my situation.”

She follows my gaze. Her eyes widen, and a flush spreads across her cheeks. “Okay,” she says, a little breathless. “The house.”