Page 65 of The Puck Chase

Josh stares between us, as if he doesn’t believe him, as if he believes I am the reason for all the screaming, and I glare back at him like a dick.

“Same as always?” he questions him, and it’s only then I am reminded of Daemon’s words from last night.

I have nightmares.

“Yep,” Daemon grits, as if this is the last thing he wants to talk about, especially with me here, and once again Josh eyes me with disdain.

“And here I thought it might be due to your clear lapse in judgment,” he snaps back, nodding his head in my direction, and I almost roll my eyes.

“Is that the same lapse in judgment that had him choosing you as his best friend?” I sneer, and his eyes narrow in anger.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Daemon cuts him off. “Josh, I’m good now,” he chokes out, and both our heads snap back in his direction with clear worry.

Josh looks between both of us, his eyes tracking our clothes and towels discarded on the floor, before surveying our bare chests, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what we’ve been doing in here. Although, I am more interested in the way his stare widens at the marks on Daemon’s chest, his gaze snapping back to mine, as if he can’t believe Daemon has shown them to anyone, let alone me.

Daemon quickly pulls the quilt up, covering himself, as Josh averts his eyes and clears his throat. “I’m down the hall if you need me,” he tells him, looking around the room casually, yet I see the pain and worry he has for his best friend, and I almost feel bad for snapping at him.Almost.

Josh storms from the room, pulling the door closed behind him and leaving Daemon and I in an awkward silence, and I’m not sure what to do. I’ve never slept in a bed with someone before, let alone comforted them after a nightmare, so I’m not exactly sure of the protocol.

“Are you okay?” I ask carefully, searching for his hand in the dark, and when my skin brushes his, I swear his entire body flinches.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, pulling his hand away and brushing it through his hair. “You can leave if you want to, I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

Disturbing me? Is he kidding me right now?

“Leave?” I repeat in disbelief, leaning over to the bedside table and turning on his lamp, finding his face white and his eyes dark. “I’m not fucking leaving. What? You think I can handle your dick in my ass, but not a fucking nightmare?” Again he flinches, as if my words have slapped him, and the way he is clutching the quilt to hide his scars from me does nothing butpiss me off. Erasing the space between us, I get as close as I can without touching him, before gently gripping his chin, and pulling his head towards me. “What part of you’re mine, don’t you understand?” I whisper, and his wounded stare finally meets my own.

“Just because you can take it, doesn’t mean you should,” he replies softly, and I know he isn’t being funny and talking about his dick right now.

Pain pours off him in waves, so potent that it’s almost swallowing me whole, and I don’t think I will ever be able to erase the sound of his frightened screams from my memory. It’s only now that I truly realize what he must have gone through. Every mark, every scar, all of them holding a story and a scream that I’m not sure I would have survived myself, but he is much stronger than I am. He’s beautiful and powerful, and I’m sure he doesn’t even realize it, and I mildly wonder if anyone has ever gone to war for him.

A mother who died, a father who tried to kill him, and a brother that left him behind. All of them scarring him in their own ways, and I wish I could erase every single one of them. To make him feel some of the love and happiness I felt myself growing up. Every child deserves that.

Reaching out slowly, I pull the quilt from his hand and let it drop back to his waist, putting his scarred torso back on display. His body is still tense, his eyes locked on mine, cataloging my every move, but I don’t stop, not when he looks so ashamed, as ifhehas something to be ashamed of. No, it’s his piece of shit father who has something to be ashamed of, because what kind of person takes something so perfect and beautiful, and damages it so brutally?

Letting my hand fall from his chin, my fingers dance along his jaw to the first jagged line hidden beneath. “You said sometimes your nightmares are about the scars,” I start softly,hating how still he remains, as my fingers brush the mark. “Is that what you dreamed about tonight, the scars?” I question, and it takes a few seconds for him to nod slowly, as I lean in and kiss the mark. “Tell me about this one,” I whisper in a plea, my breath hot on his neck, as my tongue joins my mouth.

“Knuckle duster on my thirteenth birthday,” he replies without emotion, and it feels like I’ve just taken one to my damn stomach, but I don’t react. “It broke my jaw and I had to have surgery to fit it with a metal plate.” I close my eyes as I kiss it again, fighting back tears at the image of a thirteen-year-old Daemon, having to have surgery to fix something his father broke.

He was a fucking child, still it makes everything about him make sense. His anger, his closed off nature, the way he holds people at arm's length. It isn’t because he hates the world or everyone else, it’s because he is protecting himself. All of the coldest and cruelest people in the world were once as warm as sunshine, until someone came along and created their own personal storm. And Daemon Forbes is a damn tornado.

“And this one?” I ask, forcing myself to move on, dragging my mouth to the one across his collarbone, and I both feel and hear the hitch in his breath.

“Knife. I think it was meant for my heart, but I had a growth spurt when I was fourteen, so I had started fighting back by then,” he replies casually, as if fighting off a knife attack is completely normal, and based on the state of his body, I’d have to guess that for him, it was.

Tears sting the back of my eyes, but instead of getting sad or mad, I just pour every ounce of affection I can muster into my kisses, showering his scars with affection, as I move from one to the next.

I ask about each of them, and every time I am told a story even more harrowing than the last, until his breathing is onceagain heavy and labored, and my heart feels like it might tear in two. I don’t stop though, because all I can think about is a broken and bleeding boy who nobody bothered to rescue. One who still fights his demons, even in his sleep, and keeps everyone away, yet here I am. I’ve fought my way past his defenses, and I’m not fucking being kicked back outside of them, no matter what he says.

“What about this one?” My lips move to a jagged one across his ribs, that is so long that my brain can’t even fathom him surviving it.

His stare is dark and somber as it meets mine, watching me kiss him as if he feels nothing, yet the affectionate way his hand slides into my hair tells me differently. “Metal bat to my side that broke four of my ribs. I passed out of from the pain, and my father needed me to wake up so I could get out of his way on the kitchen floor, so he used his blade to see if that would do the trick, and it did,” he replies with a shrug, continuing to stroke my hair, his touch soft, while his words are fucking brutal.

A metal fucking bat. His blade.

Anger burns through me like fire, so potent and fucking raw that I can almost taste it, yet Daemon’s expression doesn’t change. It’s almost like he’s resigned to it all, which is fucking bullshit.

“You know none of it is your fault, right? And I know that’s a fucking cliché thing to say, but it’s true,” I tell him sternly, and the soft smile he responds with almost fucking breaks me.

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