Page 59 of Pretty When He Bleeds

Practice is running late. Won’t be able to come over later.

I stare at the message for a second, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I try to decide what to say.

Don’t overwork yourself, Hotshot. Try not to break any bones.

I hit send and drop the phone onto my chest, staring up at the ceiling. A minute later, it buzzes again.

No promises.

I chuckle to myself, shaking my head as I toss the phone back onto the nightstand. Typical Roman. Always pushing himself too hard, like he’s got something to prove.

The thought lingers as I lie there, my mind drifting. It doesn’t take long for it to circle back to him—his voice, his laugh, the way he looks at me when I kiss him in front of everyone.

It’s been two weeks and fuck, he’s still in my head like one of my favorite songs.

I run a hand through my hair, closing my eyes as images of him flood my mind. Roman on the ice, his body a blur of power and precision. Roman in my bed, flushed and wrecked, the sound of his voice breaking as he moaned my name.

My chest tightens, and I shift uncomfortably, trying to will the heat away. But it’s useless. He’s everywhere—every thought, every sensation, every fucking breath.

I roll onto my side, grabbing a pillow and pressing it against my face with a groan. God, it still smells like him. “He’s yours, Damon,” I mutter, my voice muffled.

But even as I say it, doubt creeps into my mind. Caleb was his first love… Would he ever feel that way about me? Does he only like me because I look like an older version of Caleb?

I toss the pillow aside and stare at the wall, my mind spinning out of control. This isn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t his first choice, so does that make me something he’s… settling for?

I sit up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and running a hand through my hair. My chest feels tight, my head pounding as I try to shake the thoughts away. But they don’t go anywhere. Instead, they twist and morph, shifting from guilt to desire, from frustration to something I can’t name.

Something that feels a hell of a lot like fear.

I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over Roman’s name in my messages. For a split second, I consider texting him again, asking him to come over when practice is done.

But I don’t.

Instead, I set the phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the silence creeps in again.

And this time, I let it stay.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but it’s no use. They keep coming, relentless and loud, like they always do.

The clock on my nightstand glows red—9:12 p.m.—and I haven’t moved in hours. My chest feels tight, my throat raw, and my head’s pounding like a goddamn drum.

The quiet doesn’t help. Neither does the dark. Every shadow in the room feels like it’s closing in, like it’s alive, waiting for me to lose it. If I focus too hard, I feel like the voices might come back, and that terrifies me more than anything.

I curl up tighter, pulling the blanket over my head as if it’ll keep the noise in my head from getting louder. It doesn’t. The memories, the guilt, the fear—they’re all screaming and drowning out any chance of peace.

What the fuck are you doing, Damon?

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I try to ground myself. My breaths come fast and shallow, and no matter how many times I tell myself to calm down, it doesn’t work.

I freeze when I hear a knock at my door, my heart skipping a beat. I sit up, staring at the door like it might grow teeth and swallow me whole.

Another knock, softer this time.

“Damon?”

Roman’s voice cuts through the haze, and I’m off the bed before I can even think about it. I open the door, and there he is—his hair damp and messy, his cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Hey,” he says, his usual smirk softening into concern the second he sees me. “What’s wrong?”

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