Page 71 of Sick Bargain

“I know.”

He doesn’t know. He might mean everything with me is going to hurt, or he might mean the end of this kiss is going to hurt. Either way, he’s right. I press my mouth to his one more time, savouring the taste of his docile need, and then I pullback. Tonight will be brutal; tomorrow, we’ll attempt something softer.

“Are you ready, Remiel?”

“Yes.” He looks at me with wet eyes, dazed from gentle intimacy.

I unclasp the hook of his right arm, sliding it along the bars until his arm is outstretched beside him. Hooking it back, I run my fingers over the scar left by his mother. The suicide mark he bears but did not draw. I’m going to cover it.

“Pills and hanging,” I list the two ways his brother and father killed themselves, looking at his neck. “Your throat and your neck are now mine. Wrists are next.” His other brother cut himself and bled out right on the plot he was meant to be buried in.

“What? You’re… covering all the ways I could kill myself?”

I step over to the fire, moving the handle of a poker around. “Bite this.” I hold up the leather again.

He shakes his head, but he does it. His eyes widen in extreme fear when I pull the tool from the fire. It’s large and glowing red. Without giving him a chance to protest, I line it up with the inner length of his forearm, spanning from wrist to halfway to his elbow, meet his eyes, and press the hot metal against his skin.

Remiel cries out, muscles flexing, veins bulging, and hand fisting. His eyes leak tears as he squeezes them closed, and drool drips down his chin and around the leather. The brand hisses against his flesh, the smell of burnt skin ripe in the air. When I pull it away, the first few layers of his skin come with it, and I throw it back into the fire.

Remiel’s eyes won’t focus, the pain too intense.

“Look at me, Remiel.”

He’s hyperventilating through his nose, barely able to keep his head up. He looks at me, lashes wet and stuck together, his jaw locked.

“I enjoy the way you hurt, hero. Do you like pain?”

He shakes his head weakly before it slumps forward. I remove the leather from his mouth and lift his chin for him. “It’s not pain,” he rasps. “It’s fear.”

“I know what turns you on,” I tell him. “Pain does nothing?”

He shakes his head again, and I notice his cock has once again softened. “Pain feels negative. Fear feels like…”

“Living,” I finish. “One more time. Open your mouth.”

He begs me not to, but I shove the leather between his teeth, and he clamps down all on his own. He’s crying harder now, and when I pull his other arm taut, pressing the second brand there and pulling it away, he hyperventilates so hard he passes out. His head hangs, chin resting against the Xs on his chest, his slobber dripping into the fresh wounds. I toss the brand aside and make sure the last one is nice and hot.

I wish I really could bleed him. Maybe it’d be enough to make him believe the curse was gone, but I don’t trust whatever dark magic I possess to bring him back to life, and losing him isn’t an option for me anymore. Instead, I’ll have to bleed him in increments, cut him whenever he gets close to poisoning himself, and burn the rest of the curse from him. His wrists will be in so much pain, and over the next few days, they’ll blister and peel. When they heal, they’ll leave a raised scar with my name, and if he ever thinks about cutting his wrists, he’ll have to slice right through my brand. I hope it’s enough to make him hesitate, to pause long enough to think. To stop. To remember the life he’s learning to live.

“Remiel,” I say, tapping his cheeks. “Remiel.”

He jolts, his eyes wide with pain and his forehead coated in sweat. The leather falls from his mouth, and he groans in agony.

“You’re almost done, hero. One more burn.”

“No,” he begs. “No more burning. No. Please.”

“One more burn,” I repeat. My hand rests on his chest, pressing my warmth into his heart. I look at his wet, scared eyes and tell him something personal. “You called yourself sick, and until you said it, I’d considered the word… an insult. But if you’re sick, Remiel, if whatever pumps through your heart and coats your brain is a sickness, it’s a fucking blessing. Not an insult.” I pick up the leather strap and hold it in front of his mouth. “I want you, too, Remiel. I pick you, too.”

He chokes out a weak sob, still drooling.

“And I want your sickness to meet mine, and whenever we get too tainted and Moros can’t handle us anymore, I want to die sick with you.”

When his lips part on another cry, I shove the leather between his teeth, grab the last brand, and press it to the skin of his left pec.

SICK

Remiel taught me to relish the word instead of fear it.

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