Page 65 of Pretty Plaything
“I’m serious.”
Alessandro shakes his head, a grin on his face.
When he leaves the room, I follow him out. As he washes his hands in the bathroom at the end of the hallway, I lean in the doorway.
“How did you learn to do that?” I ask softly.
His gaze lifts to me as he wipes his hands with a towel.
He unzips his pants.
My eyebrows shoot up.
What is he doing?
He tugs his pants down and points at the thick scar on his thigh.
Do I really want to know?
“I completely fucked it up the first time,” he says. “So my father reopened the wound. I got it sort of right on the third try. Actually, my father would’ve probably made me do it again, but Doc said it was fine because I almost passed out. I had more wounds that needed taking care of later, so practice helped.”
He says all that with a smile on his face, as if he’s talking about a memory he’s particularly fond of.
Oh god.
I gape at him like a fish. If I didn’t think his father was a psychopath before, well, I’m now sure like hell that he was one.
After Alessandro pulls his pants back up, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms tightly around him.
I don’t know if I’m trying to comfort the boy that had to go through all that fucked-up shit or the man that he is now.
Or both.
But I want to hold him.
Because I think he needs it.
His shoulders are stiff, and he doesn’t move for a few moments, as if he’s not sure what to do. But then his arms snake around my waist.
