I suck in a breath, feeling his raised scars. “Are they ugly?” he asks, a thread of misery in his voice. Before I can answer, he says, “They should be. They aren’t like yours. They aren’t there because I created life. They’re just sour memories.” At once, I’m reminded of the words he spoke to my mother, hours earlier. “They’re more than bad memories, Lex. They’re a testament to your strength. Your love and loyalty to your brothers.” Leaning down, I press a kiss to his mouth, whispering, “I think they’re beautiful.” His eyes flutter open, holding mine. “Then believe me when I say that’s how I
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