Page 93 of Pretty When He Bleeds

A full minute.

My phone vibrates.

In my room. You okay?

No.

Can I come over?

Door’s open, baby.

I don’t waste another fucking second. I need him right fucking now.

I shove my phone into my pocket and head straight for my bike, yanking my helmet on with shaky hands. The moment the engine roars to life, I take off, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. The wind stings against my open visor, but I don’t give a shit.

I just need to get there.

I don’t stop at the front door when I get to Roman’s house—I push it open like I fucking live here. Technically, I might as well at this point. The house is quiet, which means most of the guys are either out or passed out. Good. I’m not in the mood for their bullshit right now.

I take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering, and my head spinning from everything my mother just dropped on me. My chest is so damn tight it hurts to breathe, and I can’t shake this feeling, this weight pressing down on me like a goddamn vise.

I need Roman.

His room is at the end of the hall, and the door is cracked open. I push it the rest of the way, and there he is—sitting on his bed, a book in his hands, one knee drawn up as he leans against the headboard. He looks up when I walk in, his dark eyes scanning my face immediately, and I see the worry settle in his features.

“Damon,” he says, setting the book aside. “What happened?”

I shake my head, locking the door behind me. “Not now.”

He frowns as I walk toward him. “Not now? Damon, you—”

I cut him off by grabbing his face and kissing him hard.

He makes a startled sound but doesn’t hesitate to kiss me back, his hands flying to my waist, gripping me tight like he knows I need to be held together. I press my body against his as I climb onto the bed, shoving him back against the pillows.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I just need to feel him.

Roman groans as I grind down against him, his hands sliding under my hoodie and fingers pressing into my skin like he’s trying to anchor me.

“You’re freaking me out, baby,” he mutters against my lips, but I don’t let him say anything else. I kiss him deeper, licking into his mouth and nipping at his bottom lip until he gasps.

His hands move, pushing my hoodie up, forcing me to break the kiss so he can pull it over my head. My chest is bare, my tattoos on display, and his gaze rakes over me like he’s committing every inch to memory again.

“Damon,” he murmurs, softer this time, his fingers tracing the ink on my ribs. “Talk to me.”

I shake my head again. “Later.”

His brows pull together, but he doesn’t argue. He just exhales and nods, his hands sliding down my back, gripping my hips. “Okay.”

Then he flips us over, pinning me to the bed and straddling my waist as he looks down at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, but beneath all the lust, there’s something else. Something deep.

Something real.

“You need to stop running from your fucking thoughts,” he says, voice rough.

I smirk up at him, trying to push past the ache in my chest. “Then make me stop.”

His lips curl, and for a split second, I see the challenge spark in his eyes before he leans down, his mouth brushing against my jaw, then my throat. His hands move, sliding down my sides, his thumbs skimming over my hip bones.

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