Page 45 of Map of Pain
“No, no danger,”Nick affirmed.“I’m sorry, it’s stupid.”
Luka’s chest tightened at the automatic apology. He wrote quickly: ‘No sorrys. You don’t need to apologize to me.’He tore the page out, sliding it under the narrow gap.
Nick’s voice came after a moment, still quiet but steadier.“I saw the pajamas you put in my bag and thought they looked comfortable.”A pause.“I haven’t worn pajamas in a long time. Always sleeping in clothes thatwere... chosen by someone else.”His voice cracked.“I can’t button the shirt. I tried. But I can’t.”
His pen moved across paper:‘Breaking things when frustrated makes sense. I threw a lot of stuff after losing my voice.’He slid it under the door.
The scent of fear and shame gradually receded, giving way to that floral note again—lighter, more genuine. Nick’s voice emerged with careful curiosity:“How did it happen? Is it related to your throat scar?”
We should tell him. The hunterwasreaching out, seeking connection through shared understanding. His pen hovered over paper as memorieshe’dkeptburied for decades surfaced.
He wrote:‘Long story. Don’t want to burden you when you’re upset.’
The paper disappeared. Nick’s response came quickly,“I would like to hear the story.”
Luka stared at a clean page, something restless moving in his chest as protected memories pressed against his consciousness. He’dnever told anyone the full story—not even Vincent knew all the details. But something in Nick’s quiet request, the way he asked despite his own pain, made Luka want to offer this piece of himself.
His pen moved with careful deliberation:‘World War 2, Macedonia. Neighbor country sided with Axis powers. My brothers and I fought to protect our family.Werecaptured, held prisoner. Captorswerecruel because they could be.’
He paused, throat tightening with phantom pain. The memory of that rusty blade, the warmth of blood running down his chest as he deliberately severed his ability to scream.
‘Matteowasalways gentle, kind. They made him listen to me being tortured in the next room. His crying hurt worse than what they did to me. One day they left a weapon in my cell. To stop them hurting Matteo through hurting me, I used it on my throat. Cut my vocal cords. I hummed soI’dknow where to cut.’
His hand trembled slightly as he continued:‘Same day, Matteo deafened himself with a rusty nail, hopingthey’dstop torturing me if he couldn’t hear my screams. Never knew if they left those things where we could find them on purpose.’
Luka slid the paper under the door, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable.He’dsharedhis deepest pain, the moment thatdefined both him and Matteo for over eighty years. His beast offered quiet support, approving of the choice to trust Nick with this truth.
Nick’s voice came through the door, strength threading through the sadness:“I’m sorry that happened to you. And your brother.”
Luka whistled a steady C—acknowledgment, gratitude for being heard and understood.It’s okay.
The door cracked open. Relief washed over Luka as Nick appeared, face still red and tear-streaked, eyes uncertain but determined.
“Will you help me button my shirt?”
Chapter eighteen
I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry...
Luka
Amoment later, Nick emerged from the bathroom, a ghost backlit by the dim hall light. Each step he took on the worn carpet was a study in hesitation. He clutched the front of the pajama shirt closed, a familiar shield, his knuckles white against the soft flannel.
Luka consciously took a step back, giving the hunter space to breathe. He anchored himself, a statue of patience. When Nick’s gaze lifted, shadowed and uncertain, Luka brought two fingers to his own eyes, then pointed to Nick’s torso, a silent promise.I will look.He held up a single finger, then mimicked the slow, precise motion of fastening a button.Just once. To help.
The air thickened with Nick’s scent—courage and rain-soaked earth and a raw vulnerability that made Luka’s beast still. Itwasn’twith hunger, but with something akin to reverence.Want him, it rumbled, a low thrum against his ribs.
A small, jerky nod from Nick. He took one step, then another, his bare feet silent. His lower lip trembled, a flicker of fear he couldn’t hide before his hand fell away from his chest.
The shirt fell open.
And Luka’s world, a vastness of patience and calm, narrowed to the landscape of Nick’s skin. A silent, choking fury rose in his throat, a red tide of rage. Itwasa map of desecration.Kitten, carved in elegant, mocking script down his sternum. A constellation of puncture scars and tiny, branded hearts across his stomach.Darling, a silver scar above his navel. And across his right pectoral, the wordsGOOD BOYcarved deep enough to be a permanent groove.
But itwasthe brand on his left collarbone that made Luka’s vision flash black at the edges. A perfect, filigreed G, burned into flesh. A signature.
We know that mark, his beast snarled, the sound a silent roar in his mind.
Rage became a physical thing, a furnace hissing to life in his chest. His fangs ached, pressing against the inside of his lips, every predatory instinct screaming for vengeance, for retribution against the monster whomarked Nick like cattle.
