Page 62 of Beyond Hate

The sensation was too intense. It ran along the lines that existed across my fractured soul. It danced between the spaces where I’d existed before as a boy who felt too much and the body I was in now that feltnothingbut the need to hunt London down and make him hurt.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood as I stepped away, before I did something I couldn’t take back.

The only sound breaking the silence was London slipping from the bed as I turned back to the coffee machine.

“That’s going to taste like shit.” His voice came from directly beside me, and I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I turned to look at him, and my eyes were instantly drawn to the bruise on his cheek again. Almost helplessly, I raised my hand and brushed the corner of his mouth gently with my thumb.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” His tongue darted out to lick at the cut before he stepped into me. Those warring emotions apparently weren’t enough to stop me from letting him, and the chill in my head wasn’t enough to stop my arms from coming around him when he started to shiver. “I’m just… tired.”

I knew he didn’t mean physically, but I didn’t know how to make it any better for him. The best I could do was run my fingers through his hair and give him promises I’d kill to keep.

“I’ll stay with you, London.” I couldn’t promise that no one else would hurt him, because the world was made to hurt people like London… “I’ll kill anyone who hurts you.” Icouldpromise that. I might not always be able to stop it, but I could always bring him back blood-soaked fingers as proof that it wouldn’t happen again.

He laughed, and the sound was just a little broken. “You can’t just kill anyone who hurts me, Otto.”

“Why not?” The question was instant.

His head lifted, his nose scrunching sweetly as he looked me over. It wasn’t like he had reason to think I wouldn’t do it… and the expression wasn’t somethingguiltyat the prospect of me doing it… so…

“I’m not worth all that blood.”

When I cupped his face, sliding my thumb gently along his lower lip again and pressing against the cut until he let out a wince, I shook my head. “I’d fill oceans with crimson if it meant I could keep all of your pain for myself.” His expression went wide as I brought my thumb to my mouth, licking at the faintest taste of blood lingering on my skin. He kept staring at me as I poured two cups of coffee and handed him one, my nose wrinkling at the acrid scent—with the lingering taste of copper and London’s skin on my tongue, I wasn’t sure I wanted to drink it.

He followed me quietly to the little table in the corner, and his fingers played with the paper cup for a few seconds before he took a shaking breath.

I knew what he was going to ask before the question left his lips, and I realized I didn’t want to hear it.

“What was on the note, Otto?” The insistence in his tone almost made me reluctant, but there was no reason to hide it. I wasn’t doing London any favors by trying to protect him from everything or shelter him from the world. He was precious, but he needed to be capable of taking care of himself.

The amount of times he’d been hurt was proof of that.

Which meant he needed to know that this was more than some fucked-up ex-boyfriend. More than some weird client at work.

“It’s fine, rabbit. This doesn’t matter.”

“I—” I cut him off before he could protest. I wasn’t telling him he couldn’t see it… I was just trying to temper his reaction before I reached over him to grab the note from my jacket pocket.

When I unfolded it on the table, my eyes darted down to the words almost helplessly. I knew what it was… I knew where it came from.

Knowing that didn’t make seeing it any less…

Painful.

IkilledOtto.

Those three words were written on the page over and over and over again, and I didn’t need London coming up behind me to tell me what I already knew.

“That’s… my handwriting.”

“Not yours,” I said softly. “Nikki’s.”

He stared at the paper, his breath coming in sharp little bursts, like his mind was trying to burn those words behind his lids and remind him of when he’d written them. Being with London made italmosteasy to forget that another incarnation of him had killed me…

But that confession was written clearly, and we both recognized the handwriting.

“How did he get this?”

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