Page 10 of Pain Run Rampant

Let’s just say my face isn’t the only thing that’s hot now.

Invictis lowers himself to the floor. He finds his shirt, but his eyes never leave my body. The way he bends down, he gets even closer to me, so close I can feel his hot breath on my skin, and I fight with myself to not move a muscle, to not react the instant I feel his breath on my outer thigh.

He’s slow to stand, shirt in hand, and when he does, he leans even closer to me, his head tilted to the side, eyes on my chest. He stands as close to me as he can without touching me, his chest all I can see if I stare straight ahead—but I don’t. I watched him drop to the floor and stand up again, my eyes glued to his face.

After what feels like an eternity, Invictis’s stare meets mine. I’m not the only one who normally has a constant smartass streak; he does, too. Right now it seems we’re both at a loss for words, like I called his bluff and now we both don’t know where to go from here.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, so close and yet not touching, but it feels like an eternity. Neither one of us says a word. Neither one of us moves. We’re stuck where we are, frozen, caught in a sea of uncertainty and trepidation.

Invictis is the one who finally pulls away first, breaking whatever spell is between us. He gives me his back before he puts his new shirt on—very similar in fit to my old t-shirt. It hugs his body a lot better than the shirt I took from Frederick.

Of course, he’s not fast enough, and what I mean by that is I totally see the bulge in his pants before he turns around.

Right. He’s just a weapon, ain’t he? I already know the answer. It’s an answer I’ve known since I first met him, since he was nothing more than a magical tattoo on my wrist. Some might think he’s a weapon, and in a sense they’re right, but that’s not all he is. Invictis is more than that.

There’s no reason for a weapon to get a boner.

Chapter Six

I can’t sleep that night. I don’t know if it’s because I’m too wound up over the upcoming journey or if it’s because of what happened earlier with Invictis. Or, hell, if it’s thanks to me not being able to cast any magic. Maybe it’s a combination of all three.

It’s well into the night when I roll out of bed. I took the bigger bedroom in the old wooden house; the floors creak once I set my bare feet on them. The room fits the bed and a tiny dresser that’s only as tall as my hips. The surface of said dresser holds the satchel that stayed with me throughout my previous comings and goings; it’s now restocked and ready to roll.

My feet shuffle me towards the satchel, and I open the flap and shove a hand inside, digging around its full contents to find what I’m looking for: the Hilt of Storms.

The members of the conclave made such a big deal over this hunk of metal that I took from Gladus once I defeated her. Ravenno did try to pick it up, and it burned him. It wouldn’t let him touch it, and yet, even back then, it somehow could sense I was special.

Only I didn’t want to believe it.

I guess that’s not really too different from how I feel now.

The Hilt of Storms in my hand, I move toward the open window, where the silver light from the low-hanging moon streams in. This house has no glass and no screens, only shutters that if you close make the house damn near unbearable to be in. I lean my arms over the open window and stare down at the magical metal in my hand.

It’s not burning me, so it must still think I’m special, even without magic. The only reason I kept it with me was the simple fact that no one else can touch it or pick it up. If I left itanywhere, that’s where it would stay, so it might as well come with me, even if I never use it.

Don’t get me wrong, when Gladus used it, it was kickass, and as much as I can appreciate a magical sword, I think it’s sort of pointless. If you have magic, you could literally make a sword without the Hilt. It’s unnecessary, redundant, even.

I try to focus on the hilt and its lack of magical blade, but nothing forms. No magic comes to create a sizzling sword that would strike fear into the hearts of any foe it faces. It remains a hilt and only a hilt.

I close my eyes and lean my head down as the night breeze caresses my cheeks. “What’s wrong with me?” I whisper so lightly I can hardly hear myself.

That question can be asked about more than one thing, too. I’m magic-less. I’m lying to literally everyone about both the magic and Invictis. Add onto that I feel some type of way about the golden bastard—something I definitely shouldn’t after everything he’s done: wiped out most of Laconia, nearly killed me, and killed my mom.

Yeah, there’s a whole host of things wrong with me, and I don’t know how to fix any of it. And that’s ignoring the way I refuse to face the music when it comes to Frederick.

Frederick is nice. He’s cute. Much more appropriate for me than Invictis, given everything. But he’s so earnest, so serious, and I… I’m not used to that. I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe a part of me is anxious that, if I let him confess his feelings for me, I won’t be strong enough to resist him, and by not resisting I’ll eventually fuck up and hurt him.

I’ve never done a relationship before. Not a real one. Not one I actually wanted. Never cared to. I don’t know that I can see myself in a normal, long-lasting relationship with how fucked-up I am.

Heaving a sigh, I pull away from the window and stuff the Hilt of Storms back into my satchel and wander to bed. I roll to my side, facing the old, slightly-smelly wooden wall, and try to get some rest.

Spoiler alert: rest doesn’t really come, and before I know it, the sun is poking through the window, telling me it’s time to get up.

Fuck.

I groan when I get out of bed, groggy as hell. I’d be groggy if I got sleep, but I’m practically dead with next to none. I slip on my shoes, grab my satchel, and push out of the bedroom.

Invictis stands in the front area of the house, his blue gaze narrowed toward the door. Thankfully, he’s fully-clothed, so there’s nothing too distracting about him other than the intensity on his handsome face. He stares so intently at the door, it takes me a moment to realize that he’s staring at it for a reason.

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