Prologue

Soulmates were common, but not everyone had one. The first words ever spoken between two people destined to be together were forever etched into the skin. Everyone's varied, depending on the people and the chance encounter that would be their first meeting. Some had a simple 'hello' or 'nice to meet you' while others could have more complexity to them, like 'well, it took you long enough' or the unfortunate 'how much of an idiot do you have to be?'

There were even people who had more than one soulmate, usually receiving a bitter encounter with those who lacked a soulmark; more often than not, those with soulmarks were hated by the un-marked, but those with more than one were absolutely despised.

It was for that reason that Iris Mayfair kept herself covered from head to toe in her oversized clothing for as long as she could remember. Since she was a child, every few years one or more soulmarks would appear on her body. By the time she was in her twenties, she had twenty-three soulmarks along her skin. Some were simple, others were complicated, many were downright confusion; Look, look! We have matching socks! and Finally, I get the light!

Only recently did another mark begin to appear, still foggy and unreadable, along a bare patch on her chest. It was short, probably nothing more than one word, and it made her curious since no other marks were quite that simple for her. Though, one on the inside of her arm was hello my dear.

It was due to her soulmarks that she had led such a rough life; not many outsiders knew of her marks, but her parents believed her to be a monster, a freak of nature that wasn't meant to be. They were unmarked, having met and fallen in love through the connection of their empty bodies. For as long as she could remember her body was covered and she was forbidden to show her skin. There was one mark that was shown on the back of her left hand unless she wore gloves, in small, neat writing that looked meticulous and practiced—Sh, sh, shh, quiet now.

This mark, as well as a few others, were still readable but now bore burns or scars from her parents' attempts as removing them from her skin. If they couldn't be taken off, they attempted to try to cover them up.

Iris had fled home when she was still young, lying low and scrounging by until she was eighteen and legally capable of renting a tiny apartment that she afforded with a meagre job. It wasn't often she went out, opting instead to stay home and out of sight. Running away before she was able finish school, Iris taught herself what she could through her love of reading.

She read as much as she could find about soulmarks, and as far as she could tell the most ever recorded on a person was three. Her twenty-four made that record pale in comparison.

It was through her readings that she learned about Dr. Fletcher, who had had been researching Dissociative Identity Disorder and the effect it had on those with soulmarks. For months, Iris debated on whether or not to contact this doctor, worried that she would either have to expose her greatest secret—and therefore her scars—or if she would have to pay her.

Lacking in money as she was, holding down a management position as best she could, it wasn't as though she could afford a therapist of any kind.

However, she finally worked up the courage to call the woman and was relieved to know that she was willing to speak with her in complete confidence and no charge. So, trying to find the same courage she had to make that phone call, Iris made her way to Dr. Fletcher's office in the early afternoon between two of the woman's appointments.

It took several flights of stairs to get up to her floor, making Iris regret wearing so many layers when she left her apartment. It was still early spring so it hadn't gotten warm yet, but even in the summer her sleeves were long so she'd become mostly accustomed to it. However, with a shirt, sweater and coat on she was sweating by the time she reached the designated floor.

Taking a moment to compose herself—unbuttoning her coat for some relief from the heat—and checking the time on her phone, she then reached forward to knock on the expensive looking wood, beneath the gold name plate fastened to the door.

"Come in!"

Hesitating only a moment as she glanced at her gloved hand, which held the mark, she opened the door and timidly slipped in through a barely-there gap.

"Miss. Mayfair?" the elderly woman asked as she rose from her seat, offering a friendly smile, and motioned the young woman further inside. "Please, come and sit. May I get you anything to drink?"

"No. No, that's alright, thank you," she answered, barely flicking her eyes up to her before they returned to the floor. "I hope I am not interrupting your schedule."

"Nonsense, child, plenty of time." Iris moved forward to take the seat that she motioned toward, sinking into the overstuffed cushions. "You mentioned that you wished to speak of my work with soulmarks," she began gently, sinking into it slowly. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I…I have many soulmarks," she began, folding her unmarked hand over her marked on, even though she had yet to remove her gloves. "I read in one of your articles that you believe several marks could mean a soulmate with Dissociative Identity Disorder; a mark for each personality."

"Yes; I have not proven the theory yet, however. I have yet to interview a patient who has met their soulmate…well, there was one but she only had one mark from the original personality, she never met the personalities."

Iris's shoulders slumped at the news, sighing softly.

"If you don't mind me asking, have you met your soulmate?" Dr. Fletcher asked carefully, leaning forward in her seat as she carefully looked over the young woman before her. She was in her late twenties, that much she knew, maybe early thirties if she was to push it, with dark blonde hair and pale, pale skin—like she never set foot in sunlight—and her eyes, from the brief glance she had, were a light whiskey colour. She was short, barely more than five feet, and remarkably skinny if the thinness of her neck proved anything. Her clothing hid the rest.

"No, I have not," she admitted, one more looking up at the other woman's face only briefly before she looked away again.

"And…how many marks do you have?"

Immediately, Iris flinched and clenched up. Should she say?

"A lot," she dodged, glanced at the back of her palm as though she would be able to see through the black glove that she was wearing.

"More than three?" Dr. Fletcher pressed, her tone remaining soft and gentle.

"Many," Iris choked out, hoping that she wasn't making a mistake.

Her eyes widened at the simple word, leaning in closer as she lifted a ring-decorated hand and tapping her fingertips along her lips. "Would you tell me how many?"

"I…would rather not."

Iris fidgeted in her seat, repressing the urge to turn and run. After all, she had been the one to contact the therapist in the hopes of getting some answers. "May I at least see some? However many you are comfortable with."

Swallowing against the lump in her throat as she raised light whiskey eyes up to meet the doctor's interested stare. Finally, she pulled off the black glove of her left hand to reveal the neat, tight writing, then rolled up her sleeve to the elbow to show three more along her forearm—Oh, the eyes, look at them eyes encircled her wrist, Hello my dear running along the inside of her forearm near her elbow, and He's told us about you, little one, he really likes you beginning at her elbow and running along the outside of her forearm toward her wrist.

All four were in different handwriting. The one on the outside of her forearm was marred with a long scar running through it, distorting the words slightly but they were still easily legible due to the thinness of the scar. It had been sewn shut carefully, preserving the mark.

Dr. Fletcher reached out, pausing long enough to meet Iris's concerned eyes to seek her approval, before she clasped her hand to turn her arm this way and that as she looked over the marks, examining the scar as well. "Fascinating," she murmured, the chill of her rings almost causing Iris to pull back. It had been a long time since she had been touched by anyone, even voluntarily. "Were you born with them all?"

"No, she responded, slowly pulling her hand away and lowering her sleeve. "I was born with some, but the others appeared over time."

Resuming her original seat, Dr. Fletcher rested her fingers against her lips again. The woman before her was interesting all on her own; she was shy and timid and the way she was crumpled in on herself reminded the older woman of her more abused patients, who had gone through trauma or abuse during their life. Reluctance to meet her eyes only further supported the theory. Knowing how some reacted to soulmarks, especially those with several, she assumed it had something to do with the very reason she had come to see her.

"Miss. Mayfair, would you please tell me…how many soulmarks you have?"

So many attempts to find out the number of marks on this woman proved to be too much for her, because Iris abruptly stood as she quickly shook her head and pulled her glove on quickly.

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Dr. Fletcher, I should be going," she quickly excused as she rushed around the chair to head for the door.

"Miss. Mayfair, please-"

Yanking the door open, Iris nearly barreled into the person that was standing on the other side, hand poised to knock before the door had been opened so abruptly. Both of them jumped back at the appearance of another person, Iris meeting with the young man's light blue eyes before she immediately ducked her head down again, staring at her feet as she self-consciously began to close her coat, even though all of her markings were once more covered up by her clothes.

"Ohh, babe, I'm loving that coat," he praised when her motion drew his eyes to her wool coat—one of the few things she actually splurged on for herself when she saved up enough extra cash. Technically, it was out of fashion now, but she'd taken very good care of it and the man's keen eyes noticed that detail immediately.

Iris went absolutely still at his words, thinking of that exact sentence that was presently wrapped around her right bicep. The only thing to move again was her eyes, which snapped up to his again in complete shock. He was grinning at her crookedly, revealed white teeth and faint laugh-lines around his eyes.

This man? He was…no, that wasn't possible.

One of twenty-four soulmates was a curse for someone. To have to share among twenty-three other people was just cruel.

And Iris doubted she would survive through twenty-four different soulmates. The people meant to love her and protect her most beat her and cut into her in more ways than just the physical. Those memories were not so easily brushed aside.

Before she fully comprehended her own actions, words were spilling forth from her lips, "I can't," she blurted out, feeling the burn of tears as she looked away from him so she wouldn't have to witness his reaction. "I'm so sorry, but I can't."

Rushing passed him in the next instant, flattening herself against the doorway abruptly so as not to touch him, Irish flew down the stairs as quickly as her short, slim legs could take her while she continued to clutch her coat tightly against herself.

She was already to the last flight of stairs before "Wait! Please, wait!" was shouted from above, echoing through the open concept building, followed by the thundering of footfalls as the man rushed to follow her. The booming echo of his steps made her flinch as she leapt the last three steps and dashed out the doors and turned a sharp right. Ducking into the alley beside the building and rushing down far enough to hide in the side alcove, out of sight, Iris silently prayed that he would look around and give up when he couldn't find her fleeing down the street. She couldn't wait there all day.

She shook like a leaf from head to toe, hands clutching at the lapels of her undone coat in a grip so tight she wondered if she'd ruined the material. For how long she'd stood there, hidden from view, she wasn't sure. However, no one came out shouting for her and no one came down the alley. Taking the time to calm her breathing and quickly rearrange her appearance, Iris eventually peeked around the corner before pulling up her hood and taking the chance to leave the alley.

Not daring to glance back for the doors, the trembling woman walked back home as calmly as possible, avoiding any attention she could.

Sitting in the chair that she had vacated in Dr. Fletcher's office, Barry's mind was reeling. He thought of the writing that twined the back of his calf, in soft, feminine scrawl, and the words that he had always feared would be said. None of them knew who would be the one that heard them, and it faintly broke his heart that it was him, but he was relieved that it hadn't been Kevin or one of the more gentle personalities that had been born of Kevin's need for them.

"Doc, what was that?" he finally asked, raising bewildered eyes to the elderly woman that sat silently across from him, giving him time to process. "What…what did I do wrong?"

"Oh, Barry, you did nothing wrong," she assured, her tone motherly and kind. "Miss. Mayfair called me last week about soulmarks, stating that she had quite a few that were all different styles of writing and she wanted to speak to me about some of my research on reasons for multiple soulmarks. She was only here for a few minutes but…I think she's been hurt for her marks before, one of them had a long scar through it. She was so scared and timid and she wouldn't look at me. I think she's just scared of getting hurt again."

Barry's heart sunk at the same time that anger sparked within him. "Someone hurt her?" he demanded, leaning forward abruptly.

"I don't know for sure. She didn't say much, but she has four marks on her left arm alone from palm to elbow. When I asked how many she had, she only said 'a lot'."

Barry swallowed thickly as he shifted in his seat, thinking over her words as he repressed the urge to run after her again. By the time he got through the entrance doors, she was nowhere to be seen, he'd have no way of finding her.

"So she's ours? She's got one for all of us?"

"Well, from your reaction I dare say she's definitely yours," Dr. Fletched answered with a smile, getting a hesitant one in return. "Tell me…does the writing of your marks all match?"

Yes. They did. It was one of the few things that all of the personalities agreed on. The writing was the same for each of the words and phrases on their body. They had even had debates and arguments about which mark would match which personality—no one had ever believed that Barry would be the one to get one of the harshest sentences. Most of them were kind, some were hesitant or afraid, but that was the only one that showed immediate rejection of some kind.

In truth, they had all thought that Dennis would be told those words. Now Barry briefly wondered which ones would actually be said to him.

Jade was going to have a field day with this new development.