Page 11 of The Ecstasy of Sin
Except that’s what Torin is right now, and anytime he has one of these episodes. A broken child in a grown man’s body, trapped between reality and the nightmare that is our past.
I approach slowly, doing my best not to startle Torin. Ryker’s tired eyes find mine, and I’m gutted by the guilt I see there. He has a fresh bruise blooming beneath the skin surrounding one of his eyes.
Our haunted brother points the combat blade in Ryker’s direction, a broken expression on his face. “It’s almost three thirty. It’s almost three thirty,” He repeats the phrase under his breath as he begins pacing back and forth like a wild animal that has been cornered.
I feel like my brother has his fist wrapped around my cold, black heart—threatening to destroy us all if he can’t get a grip on reality. I step forward, placing myself between Ghost and Ryker.
“Hey, brother,” I say gently, keeping my voice level. “What’s got you upset tonight? What were you and Ghost doing before this started?”
I’m desperate to anchor him to reality, hoping to pull him out of whatever nightmare loop he’s trapped in. I’m haunted by the far away, terrified look his eyes take on whenever he gets like this.
“Dominic.” He whispers my name like a prayer, like he’s putting his faith in me to protect him from the monster he thinks is coming to get him. His body begins to shiver, but his eyes—those dark, haunted eyes—won’t focus on any of us. “I don’t want to play with her,” his voice cracks. My heart shatters.
I’d string that wretched bitch up and watch her bleed if it could erase even a fraction of the damage she did to him.
Memories of him being taken by our foster mom, from our shared childhood bedroom, threaten to overwhelm me. I beat back those awful visions by sheer force of will, refusing to allow them the chance to get a foothold in me.
“No, Tor, look at me.” I take slow, deliberate steps forward. “She’s not coming. You’re safe in my home. We’re not in Vancouver, we’re in Toronto. Anita Barton is across the country, far away from you.”
Torin’s eyes finally meet mine, but they give me no reassurance. The tormented ghosts living in his nearly black gazemake me want to hunt Gerald and Anita Barton down and butcher them.
My stomach twists with dread as he slowly lifts the blade. The same one all four of us carry, now held against his own fucking throat.
“I’d rather die than play her game.” The finality in his voice makes my blood run cold.
No. I can’t lose my brother. Not like this.
“Torin!” Ghost shouts, just as I launch forward and slam into Torin with every ounce of strength I have left in me.
We hit the mat so hard the breath is knocked out of my lungs, crashing through the ropes and into the sparring ring at the center of the room.
I grab his dagger from his hand and throw it across the ground behind me. A thin red line blooms across Torin’s throat, superficial and shallow, thank fuck.
Regret isn’t an emotion that I feel often, but I feel it tonight as my right fist slams into Torin’s jaw. His head snaps back with a grunt, pain erupting behind his eyes like a flash of lightning across the darkest of skies.
When he slowly turns back to face me, something finally clicks. His eyes find mine, focused and sharp. Relief washes over me, and I shake out my fist to ease the painful burn now radiating across my knuckles.
I rise to my feet and take a defensive posture, while he stares up at me from where his ass is still planted on the mat. My eyes follow a trickle of blood that glides down from the thin line marking his throat.
“Come to me, brother.” I crook my fingers in invitation. “Let me take all of that sick shit trapped inside of you,” I offer, beckoning him to get on his feet.
It starts as a growl, a primitive sound from deep in his chest, before his rage and pain pour out of him in a roar that rattles the entire room. He gets to his feet so fast I hardly have time to react, launching at me with his fist aiming low.
I don’t move. I don’t even try to defend myself. I just let his fist collide with my stomach while I brace against the hit. He strikes again with his other fist, and I tense my abdomen as I take every blow. I take it for him.
I’m my brother’s living, breathing punching bag.
Silent tears are streaking down his face as he swings, all of his grief and his madness bleeding through every punch. I let him drain the venom from his wounds with every hit, until my body threatens to give out.
Shoving him away from me, I drop my shoulder and ram it into his chest, tackling him down onto the mat.
We roll together, our lungs heaving from exertion, as we exchange blows. I take more than I give, delivering one hit for every two or three he lands.
But it’s working. The pain is clearing his head, centering him here in the moment with me.
Torin falls beneath me, his powerful body starting to shake as his strength fades, trembling from exhaustion and the emotional comedown. His head hits the mat, sweat slicking his pale skin.
I lean in, our faces mere inches apart, seeking his dark gaze. “Have you had enough?” I ask with a smirk, tasting the metallic bite of blood on my tongue from what I assume is a split lip.
