Page 107 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Please,” he whispers but never drops his gaze.
“So strong,” I murmur as my fingers scrape along his elbow and up over his carved bicep. “I’ll give you anything, my love. Go start your shower, and I will be in momentarily.”
He nods and closes his eyes as he presses into my mouth—for the briefest moment—and then he’s gone, back turned with his chains dragging behind him.
And it’s then, watching him walk away from me, that I wonder,will he miss them more than me?
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
TOBIAS
By the timeI have finally convinced myself to step over the threshold, steam is swirling in the air and the mirror is fogged over. I’m grateful for the distortion so I’m not forced to look at myself as I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile behind me as I step inside, over his chains sticking out from beneath the curtain.
Brooklyn gasps as I enter, ducking under the spray. “Fuck, that’s cold.” He shivers. I lift a brow.
“Cold? Darling, this water is positively boiling.”
He scoffs. “Well yeah. I meant theair—outside of the shower,” he enunciates like I don’t get it. Perhaps I don’t. I’m already sweating and can feel the flow of my blood slowing as my veins clog with perspiration.
It’s… unpleasant.
I blink, standing with my arms at my sides. “If you say so.”
“You’re being weird,” he retorts, throwing me off guard. I stiffen—I can’t help it. Wrinkles form as both of his eyebrows meet his hairline. “Yeah, like I said.”
“I am inherently peculiar.” That makes him snort. My lips twitch.
“Nu-uh, don’t even.” He jabs his finger in my face, which I promptly lunge to bite. He yelps when I snag it between my teeth and yanks his hand back, nearly toppling over when his chain snags. I reach out and slap my hands around his waist, catching him just as we slide down into the basin. His back grazes the nozzle as I fall against him, knees knocking.
“You’re a menace,” I murmur once he’s finally gotten his breathing back under control. I watch them roll behind his closed eyelids.
“And you’re complicated.”
My lips curl inward, pressing against the ridges of my teeth. “Yes,” I concede. “I suppose that’s true.”
“You couldn’t fucking deny it even if you wanted to.” Water cascades down and splatters across his face from where it hits the top of my head, drenching my hair. It hangs heavy and wet in front of my eyes, obscuring most of my vision—which is hazy at best.
Brooklyn leans forward and pushes it back, bringing with him a whiff of wet metal. But he doesn’t take his hand away. He cups the side of my face, thumb curved against my upper lip. His wounds are prominent in my peripheral, and my gaze shifts to them without my permission.
“You like them, don’t you?” he asks, but his tone is knowing—not angry. I’m not sure if that is better.
“Yes,” I admit. What else have I to lose?
“Why?”
“Why do you?” I counter, then wince when Brooklyn pins me with a glare. “I apologize. I…”
“You can tell me, Tobias.”
Sweet boy. So accepting of my depravity.
“I know,corvus.It’s not that. I do not know how to put it into words.” His hand moves as he scooches forward, pushing both of our legs together to the point of pain. I fall into it—needing that familiar connection between us.
“You’re a writer.”
“As are you. Which means you understand precisely what it is I am referring to.”
“Of course, I do. But that doesn’t mean you just don’t try. I want to know. Tell me.”
