Divorced But Not Defeated The Military Queen’s Rise Again novel Chapter 327

r 327 Burn Marks And Doubt

Chapter 327 Burn Marks And Doubt

The first thing that met her eyes was a patchwork of mottled skin–pale islands against darker ridges, an ugly map scorched into flesh.

The burns did not stop at his shoulder; angry scars sprawled across his chest, coiled over his ribs, and vanished only when they slipped beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Quinn’s voice quavered as she whispered, “How did you end up with so many burn scars?” Unable to stop herself, she lifted a tentative hand toward the damaged skin on his shoulder.

But before her fingertips could make contact, he had already tugged his shirt back over his shoulders, sealing the evidence from sight.

Leander fastened the last button and said, “You’ve seen it, Ms. Bridger. Burns–nothing like the marks in the photograph you gave me.”

Quinn pressed her lips together; the word burn echoed through her mind like a struck bell.

Could these scars be from the blaze five years ago? No. In the clip Marley produced, Rowan’s shoulder was still bandaged and raw.

Which meant the man standing in front of her might still be a stranger, wearing a face too familiar to

trust.

Quinn swallowed and asked, “When did you get those scars?”

“Three years ago–another fire,” Leander replied. “Now, Ms. Bridger, I’ve answered every question. I’m obviously not your brother. May I leave?”

Quinn bit her lip. “Would you consent to a DNA test?”

Leander smoothed the fabric over his chest. “I’ve explained, even showed you my shoulder. You still believe I might be your brother?”

“If I’m to give up, I want to give up completely,” she murmured.

The way he stood there, the quiet in his breathing, everything about him felt uncannily like Rowan. Only Rowan had never looked at her with such wintry detachment.

He lifted his gaze, eyes like sheet ice. “Why should I submit to DNA testing because of a whim? Ms. Bridger, I am not your brother. I couldn’t have been clearer.”

A chill opened beneath Quinn’s ribs, pulling her heart into something dark and deep. So… he really isn’t Rowan?

He had spoken plainly, yet a part of her refused to surrender to the truth. If she quit now, she might never find Rowan again.

After leaving Leander’s room, Quinn returned to her hotel room.

The information she had on him still felt painfully thin.

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Chapter 327 Burn Marks And Doubt

Leander insisted he hadn’t lost his memory and that the burns came from a fire three years ago.

That only proved the new scarring now blanketed whatever old wound had once been there.

It did not prove his left shoulder had never been injured before.

One way or another, she would obtain Leander’s DNA.

Only then could she accept that he was truly not Rowan.

Earlier today, he had turned her down, flat and final, yet Quinn refused to concede. She simply reshuffled the chessboard in her mind, certain another path would still lead her to the sample she needed.

That resolve carried her down the hushed hallway of the hotel until, reaching the door to her suite, Quinn’s steps faltered.

There, propped against the doorframe like a statue abandoned mid–thought, stood, or rather slouched, Julius Whitethorn. Arms folded across his chest, head bowed and eyes closed, he seemed wrapped in an uneasy stillness.

Is he really sleeping? Here of all places–at my door, in the middle of the night? What on earth is going through that impossible man’s head?

Curiosity nudged her forward until she stood an arm’s length away, close enough to study the planes of his face.

He leaned in a careless angle against the panel, a few loose strands of hair spilling over his brow, the light accentuating the proud line of his nose. Under the warm corridor glow, those long lashes cast delicate shadows, but the smudged darkness beneath his eyes looked deeper than she remembered.

Narrowing her eyes, Quinn lifted a tentative hand and brushed the shallow bruise–colored crescents with the soft pad of her thumb. The skin felt cool, unbroken–nothing like the aftermath of a fist.

Not that anyone would dare swing at Julius Whitethorn. So… has he not been sleeping well?

Even as the thought formed, his lashes trembled, the faintest flutter like a moth beating against glass.

Startled, she moved to withdraw, but his hand shot up, capturing hers with gentle decisiveness. Moments later, those famously unreadable eyes drifted open, soft and bright, anchoring straight onto her.

“Quinn.” His voice came out in a hushed, almost reverent murmur.

“You’re… awake.” Quinn’s voice wavered with self–conscious surprise. She attempted to slide her fingers free, heat prickling up her neck.

Instead of letting go, Julius guided her hand back, retracing the feather–light path she had drawn along his cheek as though committing the sensation to memory.

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