He shook his head. "Years of bruises and scars. You must be exhausted."
I'd fought every day of my life--even the days it seemed futile--and I'd been tempted to piss Michael off enough for him to kill me. "Thank you." Lifting the sheets higher, I smiled, though I wanted to bury my face in the pillows and cry. Not for myself. Not for the scars. Not even for what Nick'd said so much as from relief that someone finally understood, finally saw the real me behind the mask I'd been forced to wear. Such a cathartic realization, it made me want to crawl inside of him and stay there forever. "Surely, strong women aren't wrecked with bruises and scars."
"You're a fighter. Your scars aren't about the rounds you've lost. They're about the ones you walked away from. The ones you survived."