Big Bad Wolfie novel Chapter 37

Tears blurred my vision as I looked up at his glaring face.

  I know he's not glaring at me.

  He has this habit of being very expressive about what he's feeling. You can always tell it on his face when he's really upset about something.

  And he looks like his patients is wearing thinner every second.

  He started off looking sad and confused.  The longer I don't tell him what happened, the more pissed off he gets.

  "Maria," he said, grabbing my waist and trying to turn me around so he could see the scars on my back better.

  "Wolfie, no. Stop," I told him, pushing his hands away.

  "Who did this to you?!" He growled.

  "No one. Just let me go," I'm already crying, but I feel like I'm about to ball . The lump in my throat is growing by the second.

  "No one?! How could no one have done this?!" He seethed. He yanked me around so we were standing in front of the mirror where he had a clear view of my back.

  One of his hands were lifting my shirt to expose my whole back, and the other was holding my hip in a strong grip.

  I looked behind me to see what he's seeing and saw the hideous sight.

  Every time I see the ugly scars, it reminds me why I avoid mirrors after showers and backless or strapless dresses.

  I'm so hideous underneath all the craziness.

  So weak.

  All my energy seemed to leek out of me at the sight.

  I turned back around and couldn't even bring myself to look at his chest, let alone his eyes.

  I looked to the floor and slowly drew in on myself. I crossed my arms over my chest and hunched forward.

  He saw the part I don't want anyone seeing.

  I had him. I actually had him.

  Now I've lost him because of these d@mn scars.

  He thinks I'm weak now. Like everyone else does when they see them.

  The sad thing is, I can't say they're wrong.

  When the uglier scars are covered, I'm the strongest person in the world. I don't care what people think.

  When their not, I'm a scared little girl, again.

  It'd be different if I didn't still have nightmares. Maybe if my parents weren't gone. Or maybe if the way I got them wasn't so f**ked up and it didn't replay every time I see them.

  I hate myself.

  Why do I have to be so in my own head?

  I can't even sleep because of this s**t.

  How am I failing at something so simple?

Babies do it!

  It happened seven years ago, for crying out lou —

Wolfie is hugging me.

  He's standing with his arms, scent, and goodness wrapped around me like a blanket.

  It's doing a lot for the frost bite that felt like it was ripping up my back.

  But now I feel like I'm on fire.

  He bent down and nuzzled his face into the crook of my neck. He's no longer looking in the mirror at the evidence of my weakest moments.

  He let my shirt fall, but his hands still explored my back.

  Not in the urgent, sort of rough way he did before, but the way a lover would caress their partner.

  Which threw me for a freaking loop. It had my mind going fuzzy.

  "What ya thinking about?" He whispered.

  My insides did somersaults.

  It wouldn't be Wolfie if there weren't mood swings, would it?

  "Nothing," I mumbled back.

  He shook his head, "You know, the more you deny anything is wrong, the more I wanna know."

  I stayed silent.

  "Does this maybe have something to do with the nightmares?" He questioned quietly, carefully.

  I hid my face in his chest and ignored his question for a second to bask in his touch.

  This is confusing me so hard.

  Why is he acting like this?

  Why is he running his hands along my back like the skin there isn't rough and bumpy?