“I may look like a monster, but I’m not going to hurt you.” Her reluctance offended him more than he cared to admit. His reputation painted him in a grim light–and for good reason–and he knew that side of his face was hideous, deformed, but he’d just risked his life for her, saved her. . . and with them alone in his room like this, the thought of when he’d kissed her inside that godforsaken closet haunted him. He’d kissed her so thoroughly that the feel of her against him was forever seared into him. And then he’d told her it meant nothing to him. What a load of horseshit. “It’s not that. I was afraid I’ll hurt you.” She reached for him again. This time, she didn’t shy away. With gentle movements, she cupped his cheek and used a handkerchief to wipe away the fresh blood. Her touch was gentle, tender. Some of the nerve endings on that side were damaged, making it less sensitive, yet he was aware of her every movement. Rogue could count the number of times someone had touched him there on less than one hand. The stroking movements of her palm and handkerchief as…