Page 44 of Broken

I slam my hand on the doorbell, not letting go, my heartbeat back to roaring, the sound whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to answer.

I refuse to let him ignore me.

There’s a dull thudding sound from behind the door, and I think he’s running down the stairs. Then I receive confirmation when he yanks it open. I see he’s wearing a shirt that looks like it was just pulled on with only a few buttons fastened.

The sneak peek at his chest, of his defined pecs, has me momentarily diverted before I cast him a look and see his face is pale, white even. Sweat beads on his forehead, and there’s a strange light in his eyes.

A fever.

God, I want that fever breaking over me.

I stare at him, and he stares back.

From my position on the doorstep, he could slam the door in my face, but I shove myself forward, pushing past him and walking into the building.

As he closes the door, I see his back, the black shirt soaked in places, and though Iknow, seeing is believing.

I push forward, grab the hem of his shirt, and lift it, exposing raw gouges along his spine. Thick train-track lines of flesh.

Blood has pumped to the surface of his skin, revealing all the scars from previous mistreatment.

I can’t stop myself.

I push my hand against his spine, even though I know I shouldn’t, and when he hisses, I whip my fingers away as he twists around to glare at me.

He froze at my touch, but that was nothing compared to my reaction as I stare at my blood-covered fingers.

So much of it.

So much blood.

My throat grows thick, and I flash him a glance, studying him and seeing for myself the very moment when the fever in his eyes dies.

I’m not sure what replaces it, but unlike before, there’s nothing ice-cold about the link between us.

He Sees Me.

At last.

I raise my hand, and let my tongue flicker along my finger, watching as his pupils turn into tiny pinpricks.

His nostrils flare in response, almost like I’d flicked my tongue along the length of his cock.

The taste of his blood comes as no surprise. Metal. Iron. Flat. Dry.

But it sings inside me as my body and his collide in the simplest way imaginable.

I watch as he gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and for a second, I know I’ve robbed him of words.

I’m glad.

I want him to be affected.

I need him to feel this as much as I do.

This madness can’t affect only me. He needs to be infected with it too.

My heart, for the first time since I saw him, is finally on an even keel. As if, because he’s been stunned, because he’s in shock, I can be calm.

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