The Iron Witch by Karen Mahoney Page A

her, and allowed the shirt to slide off his shoulders and fall softly to the floor.
    The skin on his back was as smooth and golden as it was on his chest. He was broad-shouldered, and his muscles were lean and sculpted. His waist tapered neatly to the top of his jeans.
    But it was none of this that held Donna’s attention. None of this that made her gasp with shock and a strange sort of recognition.
    Above Xan’s shoulder blades lay two livid scars, several inches long, covered with bumpy scar tissue. White, pink, and magenta. The palette of colors told the old and painful story of a gradual healing process. The scars stood out starkly against the warm tone of his skin.
    With one hand to her mouth, Donna stepped forward despite her horror. She had to see . If he was going to trust her—someone he hardly even knew —with this, she could at least show the respect such a revelation deserved. She stood within touching distance, wanting desperately to reach out to Xan in that moment. Her hand wavered, then settled back against her fluttering belly.
    Up close, she could see twisted ropes of scar tissue deep beneath his flesh, not just across the surface. Whatever it was that had happened must have hurt like hell. It was unimaginable. Well, maybe not unimaginable … She felt a sympathetic twinge in her hands and arms as she craned her neck in the dim light to examine the badly healed wounds. Sadness tightened her throat at the thought that his healing had come with such terrible scars. It made her feel a rush of gratitude toward Maker, for the care she’d received after her own terrible injuries.
    Releasing a painful breath, Donna brought her attention back to the room. Back to Xan.
    “What happened?” Her voice was low but steady.
    “I think you already know.” Xan’s voice was muffled, his back a painful map of loss and history.
    Shaking her head, even though she knew he couldn’t see her, Donna tried to reply. “No, I don’t know. I don’t .”
    “It’s where they tore out my wings.”
    “Wings,” she echoed, faintly.
    Xan turned to face her, turning those dreadful scars away so she no longer had to look at them. He bent down to pick up the discarded shirt and hastily shrugged his way back into it, leaving it unbuttoned.
    She stood there for a moment, motionless, allowing herself to breathe slowly and evenly. Be calm , she told herself. You can be calm in the face of this .
    Another thought came to her: Isn’t it interesting that I don’t doubt him? Not for a second . She could thank her twisted upbringing for that.
    “You’re not saying much,” Xan said, all traces of his earlier confidence wiped from his face. There was a deep frown-line between his brows, and his eyes looked heavy and tired. Shadows danced on the planes of his cheeks and the dip of his throat.
    “I don’t know what to say.” Donna gestured with one gloved hand, trying to find the right words. “I don’t understand why you’re showing me this. Xan, your back —”
    Xan shrugged. “I’m used to it now.”
    Donna felt a pain in her chest, one that almost matched the ache in the bones of her hands and arms. “No you’re not,” she said. “How can you ever be? Nobody could get used to that.”
    “How can you know that?”
    “Because I’m speaking from experience.”
    And Donna did the thing she’d never imagined that she would do. She swallowed, then carefully and slowly peeled off her long velvet gloves, feeling not unlike a burlesque act. Except an experienced burlesque dancer’s hands wouldn’t be shaking as much as hers were right now. She tossed her hair back and tried to meet Xan’s eyes as she held both hands out, palms down, in front of her.
    It was one of the hardest things she had ever done.
    From mid-forearm to the tips of her fingers, Donna’s arms and hands were covered with swirling silver artwork. It was as if a tattoo artist had created a spectacular silver pigment and used it to ink her arms in intricate