Harper lifts a hand to my cheek and traces one side, then the other. “You haven’t seen yourself,” he says. “I haven’t wanted to.” “You have scars,” he says. “Two of them, like twin scims.” “Do I—” The words come out a whisper, and I brusquely clear my throat. “How bad is it?” “They are beautiful.” His green eyes are thoughtful. “Your face couldn’t be anything but beautiful, Blood Shrike. With or without the mask.”
