Page 33 of Real

Then Dorian put me in my closet. I’m not sure how long I stayed there. That time is fuzzy for me. When Dorian opened the door, his hair had flecks of gray and there were dark circles under his eyes. His body was different too—a little thicker and slower. He yelled at me to get up, but I was so dry, I couldn’t move. He thought I was dead, and he was angry.

That felt good. At least he cared one way or the other.

Time passed. I’m not sure how much. The next time Dorian opened my closet, he had a cane. Next to him was a woman with bright red hair. She crouched in front of me with a cup of water. Her voice was soft when she told me to drink. Dorian snapped at her. I don’t know what he said. I just remember thinking she must be an angel. I wanted her to take me away to heaven.

She didn’t, of course. I never saw her again.

After my time in the closet, my body was different. Sometimes I’d heal when Dorian hurt me, sometimes I wouldn’t. In the last year, my body has held on to every scrape, crack, and dent he’s created, so maybe I can’t heal anymore. I don’t know. All I know is that Candlewick has scars from Dorian’s ring too.

I think there are some things no one can heal from.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

“Of course it matters. Dorian is a monster.” He runs his index finger along the crook of my neck. “I bit you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t show anyone.”

“No, that isn’t… I didn’t mean to scar you. I’m sorry.” He leans down and gives me a gentle kiss in the crook of my neck.

“It’s okay.”

What would he say if I told him I wanted it? I have so many scars. Why am I only allowed to have scars that make me sad? The bite marks from Timothy make me feel good.

He crawls on top of me again. “I’ll be more careful.”

Does this mean we can continue? I send out a wish to that fairy godmother I know I don’t have as I reach for the top button of his shirt. If he took off my shirt, that means I get to see him shirtless too, right? Or maybe that’s not how it works. I’m not sure.

He closes his hand around my fingers. “Buddy, I…” he stops and takes a deep breath. “I guess it’s only fair.” He releases my hand.

Does that mean he wants me to keep going? I watch him closely as I unfasten the first button, then the second. He doesn’t stop me again, but he doesn’t meet my gaze either. Like he has something to be ashamed of.

I get to the bottom button and open his shirt to find a hairy chest and generous belly. He has scars too, but his are lighter than mine, just faint lines across his abdomen. Candlewick has lines like that at his hips. He called them stretch marks. He said a lot of people had them, but the media pretended they didn’t exist because some people thought they were ugly.

Maybe that’s why Timothy looks so ashamed.

I slide my arms around him and press my cheek against his warm, hairy skin. During my heat, Timothy reassured me and complimented me the whole time. Maybe he could use a compliment this time around.

“Your body is perfect,” I tell him.

“You don’t have to say that, Buddy. It’s okay.”

He doesn’t believe me.

I wish I could make him feel better. Maybe I could try something he did that made me feel good. I use all the strength I have to roll him over on the bed until he’s on his back and I’m straddling him. He looks up at me, the vulnerability in his eyes clearly painful.

I start by nipping at his neck. He arches against me like before, more than willing to let me claim him. I give him little bites down his shoulder, stopping at his clavicle.

“Buddy, I can put my shirt back on. It’s just you showed yourself…” He trails off as I run my tongue down his chest and nip just above his nipple. He stops talking. His chest even stops rising and falling. He’s holding his breath, just like I did earlier. Somehow, I have a hold over him. That doesn’t seem possible.

I close my mouth over his nipple and suck. He threads his fingers into my hair. He doesn’t want this to stop either.

He actually wants me.

I bite his nipple gently, then move mouth down to where his belly begins to swell. His fingers tighten in my hair. “Buddy, you don’t have to.”

He thinks I don’t like this. He needs to understand how beautiful he is. I bite down on his stomach, claiming it with my teeth. He lets out something that sounds like a sob. I run my tongue along the bite marks, then move lower and bite him again. I nuzzle the concave area that descends to his belly button and kiss the loose skin. I savor every stretch mark, every inch of softness.

His grip on my hair turns gentle. I don’t look up at him because I don’t know if he’ll be able to handle it. If he were to kiss my scars, I don’t think I could handle eye contact at the same time. When he’s covered in my bite marks, I look at my handiwork instead, and a deep satisfaction fills me.

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