She wasn't afraid of him by any means. Aimee trusted Miklos as she had never trusted another being before since her father's abandonment of her family. Jacques had promised to protect them and then fled, leaving her sense of trust severely stunted. Miklos had proven himself, and those old wounds had healed.
Hiding things had never been Aimee's intention when it came to the man she loved. This was just entirely too hard to look back upon, the memories still too vivid even after so much time. She felt the way he ached when he saw her marred back, perfect and untouched upon their last parting, and inhaled deeply.
She had to keep from flinching away when he touched the mess of scar tissue and skin, refusing to pull away, steeling herself against his reaction. Even when she was young and alone, she'd always had her beauty. He had never seen her like this, and she felt as though even the men from that tavern so many years ago would look away now if they saw what was hiding beneath her clothes.
But revulsion was not the reaction she felt from him, and she breathed a sigh of relief, looking over her shoulder at him with the pain of memories better off forgotten in her eyes. "It was caused by the things you wanted no part of," she answered, casting her eyes back toward the ground. "A bomb during the Battle of Verdun, in 1916, did this. I had taken up residence in Bezonvaux. It no longer exists, was destroyed the night I was wounded." She shook her head sadly. "Apparently the desperation of the war had caused both sides to call upon God. A priest had blessed the weapon that went off outside the tavern I was eating in."
She felt as if a lump had formed in her throat that she coudl not swallow, but it was the memory of the pain, of the fear. She had been sure she would die.