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He beams at me. “Relationship . . . skipping right over dating.”

“No—I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Yes, you did. You want to be in a relationship with me,” he teases.

My cheeks burn as they turn red.

“Oh, you want me so bad.”

I give him a stern glance and he drops the joke.

“Listen, Duchess. I’m really trying hard to give the perception that you have a choice in the matter, but I’ve decided you aren’t returning to that club⁠—”

“Casper—”

“If you enjoy stripping, that’s fine. I have no problem with you doing it if that’s what makes you happy, but you’re not working there. It’s dangerous. Find a different club.”

Fiery anger flares and I sit up straight, yanking my legs away from him and placing them on the ground. He groans, his head lolling to the side in frustration at the change of position. “You can’t make that decision for me. Starlight is the only place hiring.”

His eyes settle on mine. “Tell me why you need the money.”

It wasn’t a question. He’s raising the ante. This man made me blueberry pancakes this morning, and all he’s asking in return is fucking honesty. I don’t deserve him—unless you keep your promise and just tell him . . .

“I like you, Casper. I like that I’ve met you at this time in my life and not earlier. I never want you to know that version of me.”

His throat bobs, and it makes my brows knit together. Wait, is he getting . . . emotional? Before I can make sense of it, he draws me into him, his large hands cupping my face. “If there’s a part of you that you think I won’t want . . . that’s the version I want the most. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words melt through me, slow and sweet. I straddle him, letting my arms fold around his neck. Our kiss is tender at first, but then he makes a low sound in his throat, and pulls away—leaving me wanting more. He crosses his wrists near the small of my back, casual, but possessive enough to keep me in place. How do I tell him?

“I’m no saint, I promise. No judgment. There’s nothing you could tell me that would change how I see you. I have nowhere to be today, and I’m not letting up. You might as well just trust me.”

I tuck my arms into myself. “This is moving really fast.”

“I know,” he says. Like he knows the risks and doesn’t give a damn.

He really has no idea what he’s asking.

“How did you get those scars, Anna?” he asks, flatly.

I flinch, squeezing my lids shut, and quickly swipe the tears that leak out without my permission. The determination in his stare is fierce—he’s begging for my trust. If I continue to hide this part of me, I’m guaranteed to lose him. My only option is to call his bluff. See how true his words are and if he still wants me afterward. I don’t know if I could ever recover from his rejection. I’ve got my back to the wall. It’s my only shot.

He wets his lips. “Can I see them?”

I hold a breath in my chest, searching his eyes, praying he keeps his word, then exhale. “Okay.”

He follows me into the bedroom. Without a word, I whisk the pile of pillows into the corner. If I’m going to do the most uncomfortable thing imaginable, I at least want to do it in a comfortable place. I undress down to my underwear and climb under the sheets, rolling onto my stomach and sweeping my hair to the side.

He strips down to his boxers and joins me. Casper braces himself on his elbows, gently inching the covers lower, exposing the scars and partially finished tattoo. Goose bumps rise on my flesh. He doesn’t say anything while he studies the scars across the center of my back.

His rough hands trace over my skin. I watch his expression carefully as he examines it, it’s similar to the firm concentration he maintains while tattooing.

“It was a screwdriver,” I say. He snaps his gaze to mine and his hand stills. I blink first, and he continues analyzing the ugly carved lines.

“I had recently returned home after leaving rehab—for the first time. I was sober and trying to stay that way—plowing through lots of Blow-Pop suckers. It helped me while I was detoxing and is a habit I still haven’t kicked.” I huff a soft laugh.

“Anyway, I was loading groceries into my car, well, Rhys’s car, that I’d borrowed. My ex, Steve, just happened to be driving by and spotted me in the parking lot. He was an asshole at his best, but on this particular day he was going through one of his weeklong meth benders. He was mad I left for rehab, that he couldn’t make money off me anymore. I—I sometimes helped us re-up when we ran low. I did things, let people use me in ways I’m not proud of.”

I hold my breath and wait for the shift, for him to look up at me with shock and disappointment. For him to ask about the disgusting details. Ask if I have STDs. Ask why I did it. Give me the look that says my past is too much—my baggage too heavy.