Are they really so concerned that I know about Cyril? Worse, what ifCyrilfinds out I asked about him? That’s a frightening thought, and I shudder at it. I don’t need him knowing about my little bit of digging. Which, in my mind, I have every right to. I need to know what I’ve accidentally fallen into.
Because Cyril is wrong. If I want to leave thisNeverlandof his making, then I absolutely will.
Suddenly the door opens, prompting me to look up with wide, uncertain eyes. No one else has a key to my apartment. I should get up. I should–
“Why can’t youknock?” I demand, getting to my feet as Isaac closes the door with his hip and goes to the kitchen counter to lean over it, grinning.
“Why should I have to?” he asks, looking rather pleased with himself. Especially since he’s probably going to break my door if he keeps breakingin.
“Because it’s not your apartment!” I snap, grabbing a long-sleeved tee and black jeans. I walk into the bathroom and change quickly, coming back out as I run a brush through my near waist-length black hair. “Nothing in here is yours!”
“You’remine,” Isaac points out, his tone husky, and I can’t help but kick myself for walking right into that.
“I’m a person,” I remind him. “Not a dog.”
“So?”
Sometimes it feels like arguing the wholeownedpoint is a futile one. But damned if it’s not a hill I’ll die on. Just, hopefully, notactuallydie for it.
"Don’t you have an apartment?” I ask, going to the counter as well. Out of all of them, Isaac is the one I’m least afraid of and the one I’m least worried about when he shows up in my apartment.
“I have a house,” Isaac corrects. “That’s connected to where Cy and the others live.”
“That’s kinky,” I mutter, shaking my head at his words.
“Not as kinky as you’d think.” Isaac reaches out and plucks the brush from my hands. I start to move, but he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him, then starts running the brush through my hair with firm, long strokes.
I hate it.
Or at least, Iwantto hate it. But the feel of it against my scalp is amazing, and so is the fact that all I have to do is stand here and have my hair brushed instead of doing it myself.
…I’m going to stick with hating it.
“I mean, it is sometimes. But it’s not usually a whole house affair,” Isaac explains, and it takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about. The spell of having my hair brushed is strong enough to make me forget my earthly troubles, which is dangerous. “It has been before, though. But that’s just a real mess to clean up in the morning. Normally it’s just Ez being loud or someone getting dragged behind closed doors for a little while.”
“Are you guys all…?” I reach up and lace my fingers together, eyebrows raising as I try to pantomime what I’m asking.
“Fucking? Yeah, pretty much.”
“Together?” I amend. “I wasn’t asking about the fucking.” Though I kind of was, and the idea is kind of hot.
“Oh. Hmm…” He thinks about it, his other hand coming up to my hair so he can follow the brush with his fingers. “Yeah, I’d say so. We’re a bit strange. But I think we’re definitely what you can consider together in this scenario.”
Does that mean he’s completely off-limits to me? And why does that thoughtbotherme?
“Ezra told me that you and Arlo take the same medicine,” Isaac informs me, laying the brush down and wrapping his arms around me from behind. Carefully he nuzzles his face against the side of my throat, not touching the bandage of my new tattoo in the slightest.
“That’s such a sexy thing for him to spread around. I’m so happy you all know I’mdepressed.”
“Well…” His hand wraps around my tattooed wrist, finger stroking over the mostly hidden scars there. “I’m going to be honest, Ari. There were a few other signs.” He doesn’t smile when he says it, and it’s hard not to focus on the way the pad of his thumb feels over the scars that have long since healed. I don’t tell him that; once in a while, I imagine I can still feel the prickling burn of them healing. I don’t tell him that sometimes I wake up at night and grasp my arm after having a dream that put me right back in time when I’d made the bigger cut that travels down the middle of my forearm andiscompletely hidden by the crescent moon.
But it doesn’t feel like a coincidence when his thumb finds it under the tattoo and travels down its length.
This time I do pull away, clenching my fist and jerking my hand out of his grip. “Don’t,” I warn. “It’s not cute, or sexy, or whatever you think–”
“You don’t know what I think,” Isaac interrupts. “And I’d never think any of that. I want to know whathappened, Ari. I want you to tell me so that I can make sure that no one still breathing ever made you feel so badly that you wanted to die.”
I turn to look at him, my eyes wide and search his face. “You can’t say things like that,” I tell him softly.