Chapter 3 Scars and Birthmarks
# Chapter 3: Scars and Birthmarks
Consciousness returned in fragments. The antiseptic smell hit me first, then the distant beep of medical equipment. I tried to move and immediately regretted it as pain lanced across my back. My eyelids felt weighted, but I forced them open, blinking against the soft light filtering through gauzy curtains.
This wasn't a hospital. The room was too elegant—cream walls, mahogany furniture, and linens that felt impossibly soft against my skin. A private medical suite, then. I struggled to piece together what had happened: the rose garden, the glint of metal, the gunshot...
"About time."
The voice startled me. I turned my head carefully to find Hayden Thorne slouched in an armchair beside the bed. He looked terrible—his usually immaculate appearance replaced by rumpled clothes, stubbled jaw, and dark circles under bloodshot eyes.
"How long?" My voice came out as a croak.
"Two days." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The bullet missed your spine by two centimeters. Doctor said you were lucky."
Memories flickered back—the searing pain, his arms around me, the raw panic in his voice. Not exactly how I'd imagined getting the Duke to take my protection duty seriously.
I attempted to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at what must be stitches across my back.
"Don't." Hayden's hand shot out, surprisingly gentle as it pressed against my shoulder. "The doctor said you need to stay still."
"The shooter?"
"Got away. Security found shell casings, not much else." His jaw tightened. "I've hired additional personnel to secure the perimeter. And before you start, yes, they're all highly qualified."
I sank back against the pillows, frustration warring with professional concern. Being injured meant I couldn't do my job, and despite our rocky start, the attempt on Hayden's life proved the threats were very real.
"I need to contact my superiors, review the security footage—"
"What you need is to recover." His tone was firm, but lacked the arrogant edge I'd grown accustomed to. "Everything else is being handled."
Silence stretched between us, not entirely uncomfortable. I studied him, noting how the imperious mask had slipped, revealing something I hadn't expected—vulnerability.
His gaze drifted to my exposed arm where an old scar traced a jagged line from elbow to wrist. Without thinking, his fingers moved to trace it, the touch featherlight.
"How did you get this?" he asked quietly.
"IED explosion during my second tour. The shrapnel cut through my sleeve."
His fingers continued their path along my arm, finding another scar near my shoulder. "And this one?"
"Training accident. Rappelling wire snapped."
He nodded slowly, still examining the marks on my skin with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. "You've been through a lot."
"Occupational hazard."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You know, my mother was like you—stubborn as hell, always insisted on handling everything herself." His voice softened. "She never let anyone see when she was struggling. I used to find her in the rose garden sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. Just sitting there, shoulders finally dropping."
The sudden glimpse into his private thoughts caught me off guard. "What happened to her?"
His expression darkened. "Fire. I was twelve. They said it was an electrical fault, but..." He trailed off, then shook his head. "She never got to see me grow up. Never got to tell me..." Again, he stopped himself.
Something tugged at my memory—the butterfly box in his study, his reaction to my birthmark. A strange warmth spread from the back of my neck, the sensation almost like a physical touch.
I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and couldn't suppress a small groan of pain.
Hayden immediately reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. "Here. The doctor left pain medication as well."
As he helped me sit up slightly, his arm supporting my shoulders, I caught a glimpse of genuine concern in his eyes. This was a different man from the arrogant aristocrat who'd splashed champagne on me just days ago.
"Thank you," I said after sipping the water. "For bringing me here instead of a hospital."
"I wanted the best care. My personal physician is discrete and twice as qualified as those hospital butchers." He paused. "Besides, I couldn't risk losing my most entertaining security detail."
There it was—a hint of the old Hayden returning, though the barb lacked its usual sting.
"Your mother," I said carefully, watching his reaction. "What was her name?"
The change was immediate—his body tensing, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Why?"
"Just curious. You've mentioned her twice now."
He seemed to debate with himself before answering. "Clara. Clara Thorne." He studied me intently. "Does that mean something to you?"
The name sent an inexplicable chill down my spine. "Should it?"
Before he could respond, the door opened and Eliza entered carrying a tray with what smelled like soup. When she looked up and saw me awake, the tray trembled in her hands, her eyes widening as they fixed on something behind me.
"You're finally awake!" she exclaimed, but her voice sounded strained. She set the tray down with a clatter, eyes still locked on what I realized must be my exposed neck and the butterfly birthmark visible with my hair pushed aside.
"Eliza?" Hayden frowned at her unusual reaction.
"I—I'm sorry, it's just—" She pressed her hand to her mouth, face suddenly pale. "You look so much like—" She cut herself off, glancing frantically at Hayden. "I mean, I'm just relieved you're recovering, miss."
The air in the room felt charged suddenly. Hayden's gaze moved from Eliza to me, then fixed on my birthmark with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Eliza," he said slowly, "what were you about to say?"
"Nothing, sir. Just brought soup for Ms. Reed." She busied herself arranging things on the tray, hands still trembling slightly.
"Eliza." His voice hardened. "You were going to say she looks like who?"
The older woman's eyes filled with tears. "Like... like your mother, sir. The mark on her neck... it's identical to what the Duchess had."
The room went silent. I felt as though the air had been sucked out, leaving nothing but the heavy weight of implications I couldn't yet grasp. Hayden had gone completely still, his face drained of color as he stared at me with an expression I couldn't decipher.
"That's impossible," he finally whispered.
My hand instinctively reached for the back of my neck, fingers brushing over the butterfly-shaped birthmark I'd had since infancy. "What are you saying?"
Hayden stood abruptly. "Eliza, leave us."
"Sir, I—"
"Now."
She nodded, casting one last tearful glance my way before hurrying out.
Once we were alone, Hayden began pacing, running his hands through his hair in agitation. "This doesn't make sense. It can't be."
"What can't be?" I demanded, struggling to sit up despite the pain. "What aren't you telling me?"
He stopped, turning to face me with eyes that seemed to hold equal parts hope and terror. "How old are you, Lillian?"
"Twenty-eight. Why?"
His breath hitched. "And your parents?"
"I don't have any. I was abandoned at St. Catherine's Orphanage as an infant." The admission felt raw, exposing a vulnerability I rarely acknowledged. "The only thing I had was a silk handkerchief with the initials 'C.T.' embroidered on it."
Hayden staggered as if physically struck, grabbing the bedpost for support. "C.T.," he repeated hoarsely. "Clara Thorne."
The room seemed to tilt around me. "That's... that's just a coincidence."
But even as I said it, pieces began sliding into place—his reaction to my birthmark, Eliza's shock, the strange familiarity I'd felt toward the butterfly box.
"My mother," Hayden said, his voice barely audible, "was pregnant when my father sent her away for several months. When she returned, there was no baby. He forbade anyone from ever mentioning it." His eyes locked with mine, searching. "She had a butterfly birthmark on the back of her neck. Exactly like yours."
The implications hit me with physical force. "That's not possible. I'm not—we couldn't be—"
"The timing fits," he continued, more to himself than to me. "You'd be the right age. And your eyes... how did I not see it before? They're hers."
I shook my head, denial warring with a strange sense of recognition. "If what you're suggesting is true, why would she abandon me? And why wouldn't she ever come back for me?"
Pain flashed across Hayden's face. "Because she died in that fire when I was twelve. If you were her daughter... she might never have had the chance."
The weight of possibility pressed against my chest, making it difficult to breathe. Could it be true? After twenty-eight years of wondering about my origins, could the answer really be this bizarre twist of fate?
"I need proof," I managed to say. "Real proof, not just coincidences and birthmarks."
Hayden's expression shifted, determination replacing shock. "Wait here."
He strode from the room, leaving me alone with thoughts spinning like leaves in a hurricane. Minutes later, he returned, clutching what looked like a photograph in his trembling hand.
"I found this," he said, extending it toward me. "Look."
I took it with fingers that felt numb. The photo showed a beautiful woman in an evening gown, her back partially turned to the camera, revealing the nape of her neck.
There, exactly like mine, was a butterfly birthmark—every curve, every detail a perfect match to the one I'd seen in mirrors my entire life.