Betrayed By Beauty - Ashley Lane Page 0,5

knees to her chest, her knuckles holding her legs so tightly they’re white from lack of blood flow, her body literally trembles with the force of her whimpers.

“Ma’am, are you hurt?” She won’t look at me, her face tucked into her knees and with the black hood still firmly in place it’s impossible to see. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

As if shocked with a live wire, the woman jumps and lifts her head, finally revealing her face and all that was hidden underneath her hood. “No!” she screams, holding her hands up as if they could fend off the suggestion.

“I—I—I mean… no, thank you. I don’t need an ambulance. I’m not hurt,” she rambles, but I’m distracted by the scattered scars that cover half her face. I’m not an expert on scars and what causes them, so I can only assume that the marks covering the right side of the woman’s face are from some type of burn.

The pattern of raised, vivid pink flesh appears slightly rough and mottled, almost as though it was melted into a pattern of branches of varying thicknesses. While a large portion of the left side of her face is scarred, there’s also a portion of it that is untouched and free from the shiny appearance of what are obviously long healed scars. The untouched area must have been protected by something—clothing maybe. Or was she able to shield herself?

A lock of raven hair falls into her eyes and she absently lifts her right hand to brush the fallen strands away. The perfect line up only lasts a second, but as her hand reaches across, mottled scars matching the ones on her face are splattered along the back of her hand and trail up each finger. Suddenly it makes sense why she has such a bizarre pattern covering her face. Whatever happened, she tried to protect herself from it with her hand, and paid the price there as well. Jesus fucking Christ.

My mind is telling me I’m overreacting. There are hundreds of scenarios, natural occurrences, freak accidents—anything could have caused those brutal scars. But my gut is screaming at me that it’s more than that. The tremble of her voice and fear in her eyes can’t be denied. Someone did this to her. My guess is it was also deliberate.

Years of practice with Maddox has me easily schooling the rage that’s bubbling beneath the surface. Any indication of anger is likely to have her running. It’s an instinct that becomes ingrained in people and animals after suffering abuse at the hands of another.

I know what you’re thinking, oh so you’re a psychologist now, Dr. Jax? To answer your question, fuck no.

I’ve got my own issues that any doc would have a field day with, but I’ve also done hundreds of hours of research on abuse and PTSD. Add that to my personal life experiences with my mom, and I’m a goddamn wealth of knowledge.

Moving as slow as humanly possible, I settle myself on my ass, arms propped over my knees so they’re in her view at all times. She eyes me warily, but she doesn’t move to run and I mark that as a plus.

“Can I do anything to help you?” my voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. I’m not sure she can even hear it over the sounds of the town just outside the alley. I’m about to repeat myself when she shakes her head, silently begging me to leave her be.

“You can’t help me,” she finally whispers.

My chest cracks at the desolation and honesty bleeding from her words. It only further proves that she’s running from something, and someone. Her eyes plead with me to walk away. Leave her to brave her own battles, even though she’s already succumbing to the fight. Unfortunately, I can’t do that.

CHAPTER 2

OAKLEY

25 years old

He’s not gonna let it go. I can see it in the man’s eyes as they trace the roadmap of scars scattered on my face. He thinks he can fix me. Fix my situation, make it so I’m not afraid to close my eyes at night. He doesn’t know there’s no fighting the monsters underneath my bed.

“Thank you for the offer, but I promise I’m okay. I was just trying to… compose myself before I head home.”

The man’s jaws clench, indicating he knows why I need to compose myself. I’m no stranger to incessant stares, or the vileness that can spew from the mouths of strangers.

My scars are a