Page 15 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“Itisa betrayal!” I exclaim, shrugging him off. “I loved Caleb, and I let Damon… I wanted him to…”

I can’t even finish that sentence without feeling ashamed.

“Roman, listen to me,” Killian says, his voice softer now. “This isn’t your fault.”

I laugh bitterly and shake my head. “Of course it’s my fault. If I hadn’t—”

“Stop,” he says, grabbing my shoulders again and forcing me to look at him. “You’ve been carrying this guilt for years when it’s not yours to carry. What happened with Caleb wasn’t your fault, you didn’t force him to put that noose around his neck—”

I flinch. “Fuck you, Kill—”

“No, you’re going to listen to me,” his grip on my shoulders tightens. “Caleb’s choices weren’t your responsibility. You didn’t make him do anything, and you sure as shit didn’t make Damon come after you.”

I stare at him, my throat tightening and my hands curling into fists at my sides. “You’re not responsible for Caleb’s death, Roman. And whatever this is with Damon, it doesn’t change what you had with Caleb.”

His words hit me hard, but they don’t stop the ache in my chest or the feeling that I’ve somehow fucked up in a way that can’t be fixed.

“You don’t owe Damon anything—not your guilt, not your headspace, not whatever the hell he’s trying to do to you. I was there, I remember how it fucked you up—”

“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me right now, Kill. I just… I just need to run, okay?”

Killian sighs and lets me go. He doesn’t say anything for a while, he just jogs next to me and the silence somehow feels worse than him talking. Damon’s face flashes in my mind—those green eyes that remind me so much of Caleb, and that smirk that is more dangerous than comforting.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.

Damon

Iwakewithastart, my chest heaving like I just ran for my fucking life. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and there’s a sticky, uncomfortable heat on my abs. My head drops back onto the pillow as reality slams into me like a fucking baseball to the face.

What. The. Actual.Fuck?

The dream hits me in flashes—Roman pinned under me, his eyes wide with something that isn’t anger for once. My hands gripping his wrists and holding him down as he twisted and writhed beneath me. His lips, swollen and red as he gasped my name.

“Damon,”he breathed, his voice completely wrecked. It wasn’t just a dream of control or anger, no—it was something filthy.

I’d been fucking him. My hands were all over his chest, down his stomach, and gripping his sides hard enough to bruise as I ground into him. The dream had been so vivid I could feel the heat of his body, the taut lines of his muscles as they flexed under me.

Then there was his fucking mouth on mine: hot, wet and desperate. He’d kissed me back like he hated me for it, but couldn’t stop. His pierced tongue tangled with mine like I’d broken something in him, and he wanted me to keep breaking him until there was nothing left.

I groan and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. My cock twitches again, still half hard, despite the evidence of my release cooling on my stomach.

Because of Roman fucking Bishop. I had a fucking wet dream about the person I hate. Jesus Christ, am I thirteen or something?

I shift uncomfortably, but it’s no use. The images are still there—Roman arching against me, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, the sounds of his filthy moans in my ear. The way his voice cracked when he—

“Fuck,” I mutter and sit up, dragging a hand through my hair. My throat feels tight with shame and a lingering desire I have no idea what to do with.

This isn’t happening. Roman is the last person I’d willingly touch in that way. He’s a walking reminder of everything I hate and everything I’ve lost. My little brother is dead because of him, and now I’m…

I shake my head and get to my feet, grabbing the pack of cigarettes on my nightstand while pulling the wet boxers off. My fingers tremble as I light one, the flame briefly illuminating the mess of my room.

I take a drag, the nicotine hitting me but it doesn’t do shit about the images still seared into my brain. I exhale sharply, smoke curling around me as I try to shake the lingering heat pooling in my gut.

This doesn’t mean anything. It was just a dream—a fucked-up dream born out of too much booze, sleepless nights, and a fucking mistake in an alley.

I take another drag, but even as the smoke fills my lungs, I know I’m lying to myself.

The next morning, I’m still rattled. The cigarettes didn’t help, the cold shower didn’t help. Nothing fucking helps.

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