“What’d they say?”I ask as she sits heavily in the seat beside me.
“That they’d call me with more questions,” she says with a sigh.
I had a moment of fear for her. She was in therapy for stabbing the man. Her fingerprints were all over that goddamn gun. For the first time in a very long time, I pray. I plead that the people who so often turned a blind eye to her situation would do so once more. Skye deserves peace.
She keeps silent as we drive back from the police station. Her eyes lock ahead of her. I don’t know how to help her.
“It was just like my uncle,” she finally says, blurting the words out. Her fingers dig into her thighs.
“What do you mean?”
“He shot himself, and I found him.” Her words are flat.
“Was he the one who—”
I don’t have to finish my sentence. She answers with a soft nod.
Sick fuck. Who would do all that to their own damn niece? Their flesh and blood?
“Oh, Skye . . . I’m sorry.”
She takes a shallow breath. “I told my dad to do it, Kevin. I dared him to do it. I told him he would lose me and my mother.” A tear slips down her cheek, illuminated by the streetlights as we drive. “I’m a murderer.”
“So am I, Skye.” I killed more people than I care to admit. I killed a damn baby, for Christ’s sake.
I nearly carry her heavy and exhausted body inside once we get to the apartment. My mind is tired and confused. She pushed me out of one of the worst flashbacks I’ve had, and I can pull her from hers. We need each other.
I lay her down in bed and pull the blanket around her.
She grabs my arm. “Please don’t leave me.”
“Skye, I can’t do this right now. I’m in a bad place, if you want me to be honest.” I shrug her hand away.
“Please,” she begs.
I look at her, and my stomach clenches at the round sadness in her eyes. The desperation in them.
“Move over,” I tell her.
She scoots over, and I get into bed with her. She nestles into me, and a big exhale of breath deflates her chest as she melts against me.
“What are you feeling?” I ask.
“Everything,” she says with a sigh.
“As long as you feel something.”
The numbness is when you have to worry. When you feel nothing at all—not even pain or sadness—you might as well be dead. The reaper used to poke me with his scythe to see if I was still alive. I was, if you could call it that. It’s Skye who makes me feel. She forces me to feel. She breathes life into my lungs with her kiss.
* * *
Skye wakesup still battling herself. When she looks at me, her eyes are sunken and sad. She’s a zombie. I can’t stand seeing the reflection of myself when I look at her. I touch her cheek, but she turns away from me. When I crawl out of bed, I look down at her. She’s so small and fragile.
I go to the bathroom and release a deep breath as I look at myself in the mirror. Recalling the sounds of war which played on the TV in her living room causes pressure in my head to swell. A headache forms as I clench my eyes to silence the awful ring of the alarms. The temptation to drink rises, but I think of the girl in my bed. She’s better than any alcohol. All the alcohol. I want to get intoxicated from her kiss, drunk off her body.
I go back to the bedroom and catch Skye sitting up. Her eyes are wide, as if I caught her in the exploding beam of oncoming headlights. She glances at the drawer beside the bed, and I pull it open. She tenses and begins to shake. I dig through the drawer and pull out a razor. The razor, I’m sure. The one that put the cuts on her hips. Some of them, at least. Her pupils dilate and she looks like a trapped animal.
The metal in my hand hurts my heart. There I was, fighting my vice, battling the desire, only to find her contemplating hers.
“Would you have?” I brandish the razor at her.
She shakes her head furiously, but the shaking slows until it becomes a small nod. She starts to cry. “I just want to feel pain. I need to feel something else!”
I know that feeling. God, it’s like an old friend. Or an old enemy. Either way, we’re well acquainted. I used to get drunk to feel anything besides the barren throb of my heartbeat. I can be her vice, make her feel the pain that reminds her she’s alive.
“Let me hurt you, then,” I tell her as I step into her.
She furrows her brows at me. She’s as confused by my words as I am.
It’s not that I want to hurt her, but I can do it without damaging her. I won’t leave scars on her like this razor, the pain etched into her flesh as a haunting reminder. I want to be her vice.
“If you want pain, let me show it to you.”
“I don’t . . . understand,” she says, flashing her eyes up at me.
The ache behind my eyes washes away, along with the urge to drink. I feel only the need to comfort and protect her.
“I want to fuck the hurt out of you. I’ll give you the pain you crave, but I’ll chase it with pleasure. It’s better than this.” I shake the razor before putting it into the pocket of my sweater. “I’ll take your mind off everything you’ve just been through, if that’s what you want.”
She looks at me, contemplating the words I said to her. She leans forward, slips her hand into my pocket, and withdraws the razor. I fight the twitch in my muscles as my body urges me to snatch it away from her.
She tosses it into the trash can beside the bed.
“I want you to hurt me. Make me forget about all of it,” she says. Her voice is soft but sure.
I strip off my sweater and toss it to the floor. I’m quick to remove my shirt and pants, which feel heavy from last night. My lips find hers as I lean over her and push her onto her back. I hook my arms around her thighs and tug her to the edge of the bed. My mouth remains on hers before trailing down, making sure to let my lips fall where blood had been.
She lifts her hips as I pull down her jeans and panties. My hands rub along the remaining scars on her skin—where I won’t let her cut again. I kiss her stomach and each line of scar tissue.
Instead of working her up to avoid hurting her, I grip myself and press my hips into hers, pushing inside her as deep as I can go. Her chest rises, and she whimpers from the pain.
I lean over her, press my chest against hers, and cradle the back of her neck with a firm but loving touch. I grind my hips until I bury my cock inside her, just as I always craved. To feel her warmth up to my pelvis.
She’ll have all of me, and in turn, I’ll have all of her.
My hips drive forward as I thrust inside her, and she clenches around me. I kiss her, letting my lips spread on hers and draw the hurt from her. Just like I promised. She relaxes around me, her body moving with mine in ways it never has before.
“I love you, Skye.”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes reaching into mine. “I love you too. So much,” she says as she buries her face into my neck.
I put my weight into her and move my hips until she trembles with tension. Her chest rises to meet mine, and I wrap my arm around her. She moans my name and awakens my soul. With every thrust, I fuck the anguish out of me. With every thrust, I put back what every man has stolen from her.
In this moment, she feels as though she might combust from pleasure. And she does, taking me with her as a casualty of a different war. This is a cause I will always fight for.
We are binary stars, bound to orbit each other until we collide.