Page 1 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Roman

20 Years Old / BFA - Film and Media Studies

There’samomentrightbefore a fist connects with your jaw—a sharp, electric second where the world slows down—and in that moment, I swear I feel more alive than I ever have in my entire, miserable life.

Euphoria, I think that’s what they call it; absolute bliss the moment my eyesight goes blurry.

The guy’s fist slams into my face again and my head snaps to the side. The burn spreads across my cheekbone, grounding me and the throbbing pain that follows opens my eyes in the best way. It’s not the hardest hit I’ve taken, but it’s enough to remind me that I’m alive.

Bleeding. Breathing. Unworthy of both.

Laughter bubbles up in my throat before I can stop it, and I lick at my split lip while feeling the blood slip down my chin, my venom piercing scraping against my teeth. Around me, the crowd at the campus bar cheers, a drunken blur of voices egging the fight on like they have nothing better to do on a Saturday night.

I don’t even remember why the guy punched me, to be honest. All I know is that it’s just another idiot who thought he could take a swing at Blackthorne’s favorite wrecking ball, Roman Bishop.

“That all you got, you stupid piece of shit?” I ask, spitting to the side. “My fucking sister hits harder than you!”

Why are drunken idiots so easy to rile up? I don’t even have a sister.

He takes another swing at me and I let him. Let him try to hurt me. Let him try to knock me the fuck out because then at least I’m feeling something other than this fucking void inside of me. Pain is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore. On the ice, in the gym, or from someone else’s fists—it doesn’t matter, as long as it drowns out that void.

Another blow to my gut and I choke out a laugh because it fucking tickles more than it hurts and when one lands on my cheekbone, I just about give up on this guy. He hasn’t hit me hard enough to hurt; a fucking waste of my time.

He’s shouting something, but I’m not listening because my focus shifts something else. Or rather,someoneelse standing at the bar.

I knew he would come back to Blackthorne eventually. He’s leaning against the bar, a cigarette dangling from his black painted nails, and his dark curls hanging in his eyes. Dressed in all black and clad in a leather jacket I know too well, he looks just like his brother but just more rugged.

The same defiant glint in his green eyes, the same dimpled chin. The same fucking silver rings on his fingers.

Damon Ward.

He’s not smiling, but there’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach tighten. He hasn’t punched me, he hasn’t even said a word but I can feel him pulling strings I didn’t even know I had.

And fuck me, it’s addictive.

Another blow hits my cheek and I don’t bother to block it. I need to be knocked out; it’s better than the way those green eyes are looking at me now—like he knows exactly what I am and is not afraid to hold a mirror to my Fucked Up.

He’s here for revenge, that much is clear. I know it, he knows it and I can’t look away. They all think I was responsible for what happened, but if only they knew… I can’t help but grin, blood staining my teeth as I step back into the fight.

If Damon wants me broken, I’ll make sure I’m the prettiest fucking disaster he’s ever seen.

I watch as my would-be opponent rears back a fist, but before it can hit me, he gets pulled back violently and crashes into a table. Blinking through the adrenaline, I see the only guy I can call a best friend.

Killian King—six foot three, blond hair and blue eyes, lean build, and a right hook that has knocked me out twice. Kill’s hair catches the shitty lighting of the bar making him look every inch the golden boy he’s pretending to be.

He points at the guy and growls, “Back the fuck off.” The guy raises his hands and walks away while muttering something about “crazy fucking hockey players” before disappearing into the crowd. Smart move.

Killian’s eyes cut to me and he levels me with a look that would make most people shit themselves. Not me, though. I grin at him; blood-stained and half-crazed. “You’re a real buzzkill, King.”

He grabs me by the front of my shirt. “And you’re a goddamn idiot, Bishop. We’re leaving,” he says before dragging me out of the bar by my goddamn shirt.

I try to pull away, but his grip is iron, and the people in the bar part like the fucking Red Sea for Blackthorne’s Golden Boy.

My gaze falls on where Damon stood, but he’s gone now. I wonder how long he’s been watching me. I’ve been feeling eyes on me for weeks, but he never made an appearance before tonight.

Killian lets go of me as soon as we step outside. “Kill, I was handling it—”

“Yeah, I could see that. Explains why your face looks rearranged right now,” he says, gesturing toward me but not bothering to look back.

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