Kostia’s hands came down on either side of my waist. He bent his head, setting his mouth against the puckered skin of the scar, and stood there for a long year of a moment. “Wear it,” he murmured into my skin. The kiss started at the blade of my shoulder and finished over my spine at the scar’s tailing end. “Wear it with pride.” I stood utterly still, pinned in place, until I heard the quiet click of the door signaling he was gone.
