Page 49 of Missing Piece
Don’t worry about them. Vincent said not to worry about them.
Even after Luka finished fixing the torn stitches, both brothers lingered for long enough that Adam forgot about his nudity entirely. Between Matteo’s notepad, Luka’s text-to-speech app, and his own preliminary understanding of ASL, the conversation flowed easier than expected. The twins seemed as curious about him as he was about them. Their questions came fast and eager, like they’d been waiting for permission to know him as more than just Vincent’s human. Matteo used just about every vulgar word Adam knew in sign, though there were probably more he missed.
They wanted to know about his family, where he went to school, what kind of food he liked, if he had friends or pets. In hindsight, all the questions felt like something he’d be asked when trying to recover a password, but Adam didn’t care. It was nice to feel normal for a little while, even if he was sharing that information with two men who had probably murdered dozens of people. He was long past the point of allowing himself to freak out about that. Plus, if they tried to steal his identity, they would be sorely disappointed to discover he had a credit score so low that even the credit bureaus thought they had made a mistake.
After they left, solitude returned to the bedroom. The plywood collage of photos drew his attention—images that seemed to show a happier time for the strange group he found himself amongst. Studying them too long made him sad.DidI have any pictures of myself that ever showed me looking that happy?
His whole life had been hued with his mother’s despair and his father’s indifference. Had that set the ceiling for how happy he could be? Only happy enough to not make Mom sad or Dad angry because he made Mom sad?
“Ugh, fuck this,” he muttered, bracing himself against the edge of the bed. Crying about this kind of emotional bullshit happened last night. No need to get all teary again. Nothing in this room could be broken or hit without making him feel guilty for damaging other people’s stuff.
Bathroom needs were becoming urgent, and if he waited any longer for someone to come check on him, the empty peach can or water glasses on the nightstand would have to suffice. Some pretty disrespectful things happened during his unrepentant addict days, but defiling someone else’s glassware was not something he would do.
And if I ever did do that, I didn’t remember it, so it technically didn’t count.
Robert’s advice echoed in his head as he pushed himself off the bed, all weight balanced on his prosthetic: “You gotta make amends for the shit you did when you was high buddy, even if you don’t remember it. Just because you were blacked out don’t mean the other person was too.”
The thought made him chuckle as he let the blanket fall away. Robert. That hick had insisted on celebrating his thirty days sober at the strip club, so Robert could be blamed for his current predicament.Though honestly, where else would I have ended up?
Vincent’s long dresser became his next destination, every ounce of weight on his left foot stealing his breath untilhe nearly collapsed into the furniture. Vincent’s clothes were organized with military precision. A small part of him delighted in rifling through them, unbundling socks, and tearing through different boxers until he found one that was just one solid color.
More qualms should probably exist about climbing onto Vincent’s pristine dresser without underwear, but the thought made him laugh instead. His shoulder blades remained numb from the lidocaine shots, but the rest of him was in enough pain to offer only two options: curl up in a ball and cry, or keep pushing forward and laugh through it.
Getting down from the dresser was only slightly better than getting off the bed, but walls could be hugged for balance and the molding on the doorframe worked for pivoting into the hallway. The bathroom sat only one door down, but he may as well try to scale Everest. By the time he stumbled through the bathroom doorway, his ankle was on fire, throbbing down into his toenails and aching up into his shins.
Hell, if I can make it back to the bedroom upright, I’ll be impressed.
Hunching over the sink after relieving his angry bladder, he splashed water onto his face and watched the flakes of dried blood swirl down the open drain.Do I want to see how jacked up my face is? Probably a bad idea.
He did it anyway. Sure, his face was a mess of bruises, and his eye had seen better days, but recognition was there. So many times in the past, looking in the mirror brought horror at not recognizing who looked back at him. It was one of the worst things experienced over and over during the early days of sobriety—though the list of worsts was a long one.
Despite the injuries, he looked…good. His eyes were bright and alert, not glazed over from pills or booze like they’d been for so long. Even with the swelling and discoloration, his face had lost that hollow look that haunted him during the worst of his addiction. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the person in the mirror was actually familiar.
Chapter Eighteen - Vincent
When Vincent woke up still holding Adam in his arms, he noticed his human’s face was somehow at peace, even among a constellation of bruises. The only thing he felt was a strange calm. The discomfort and dissatisfaction he had spent years avoiding giving a name to were gone for that brief moment. If he had only closed his eyes and continued to breathe in Adam’s scent to lull himself back to an unneeded sleep, he could have reveled in that bliss a little longer. But then uncertainty crept in and forced him to take in the scene in its entirety.
The room smelled of alcohol and sex, and the human that had wormed his way, however unwittingly, into his heart was curled up so beautifully amongst sweaty, blood-stained sheets, several stitches torn in his back and smeared with dried blood.
How much of what had happened between them was the alcohol? He had never experienced a human being the aggressor like that….
Or was that whole display just his own lack of control? How would Adam react when he woke up?
Why was his heart thumping behind his sternumso hard it hurt?
He had to step out to clear his head.
Vincent’s bare feet crunched the gravel outside the farmhouse, his steps tracing a restless path. The cool October air bit at his skin, but it did nothing to soothe him. His hands raked through his hair, a futile attempt to untangle the knots in his mind. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he mumbled to himself as another text chimed from the burner phone—the sixth one that hour. He ignored it.
We claimed him. He’s ours now.The beast seemed far away, almost sleepy and diminished.Delicious. Warm. Willing.
Vincent looked down at his own hands, his jaw taut as he tried to recall if he had used his ability accidentally before Adam jumped on top of him. In the early days of learning how to control himself, even the faintest lewd thought would trigger the warming of his hands and an accidental brush of his fingertips could render a human into a quivering puddle of desire. But he had mastered the ability when he tamed his beast.
Well, when he thought he’d tamed it.
Did I let it slip? Did I want to let it slip?A wave of rare nausea washed over him. Had he become a monster like his maker? He dug his nails into his palms as he balled his fists, faint memories brushing at the edge of his consciousness that made his lower back ache—his maker’s hands, the chains, the way pain had been disguised as teaching.
Not the same. You asked permission. Maker did not.The beast was louder, agitated as it batted the memories away and flooded his mind with the sensation of Adam’s body against his.
