Page 60 of Obliterated
He huffs a laugh, nervous and pleased all at once, then strips down further until his clothes are just a heap beside him.
I want to say I don’t stare at his ass, but fuck me, Ido.
He doesn’t notice my eye-fucking, just steps into the tub, lowers himself slowly, and sinks until he’s completely submerged.
The forgotten cigarette scorches my fingers, snapping me out of it. I hiss, shake my hand, and crush it in the ashtray on the dresser. But my gaze swings right back to him, locked like a magnet.
I can’t stop staring. The way he tips his head back, hair plastered to his temples, throat bared to the ceiling, and lets out a sound that rattles through the room. Relief. Pleasure. Awe.
I don’t move from where I’m leaning, but my pulse is a drum in my ears. This is my house, my tub, my secret. And he’s lying in it like it belongs to him.
And shit, part of me knows it does.
I watch. I have to. The muscle shifts across his arms when he moves, every line cut fine as a blade. My gaze drags lower, to his chest, the faint shimmer across his skin where the light grazes it.
Dammit. I don’t know how long I can keep this wall up. He keeps worming his way through cracks I didn’t even fucking know I had, stripping me bare without lifting a finger. Every second I let him stay, I’m choosing him over the monster in my chest.
And gods help me, I don’t want to stop. I want to let him in. To let him see the parts no one else survives. To let him touch the pieces I swore I’d keep locked away.
And maybe he could handle it. Hell, maybe he’s the only one who can. He’s already carrying monsters of his own now… There’s blood on his hands, a first kill that’ll never wash off.
Quite literally. He still had some stains in the cracks of his knuckles, the shadows of it under his nails.
He took a quick shower back at his room, but not all of it washed away. Watching him now wash his skin, hair, feels like watching the night peel off, like some part of him is being rinsed clean and left bare in the water.
When he’s done, something shifts in his expression. Subtle, like a shadow moving across his face, but I catch it. The smilefalls, his eyes go darker, and it’s there… all of it. The weight, the shock, the truth of what happened tonight finally breaking through.
First kill.
He lies there in my tub, shoulders taut, jaw tight, like he’s contemplating if he should sink further under the water, let go, or shatter. And I don’t know how to help him. I’ve bled men dry, broken skulls open like fruit, walked out of the Pit with nine corpses behind me. But I don’t know how to reach across this space between us. I don’t know how to makethisright.
So I just watch, throat locked, chest burning.
But when a wrack suddenly tears through him, shoulders jerking, followed by a sound that’s damn near broken, I move.
I kick off my heavy boots, strip out of my blood-stained clothes piece by piece, and shove it all into the corner.
The room is all shadow, lit only by the spill of starlight through the windows. The water in the tub gleams silver in the dark, lapping soft against his waist where he sits hunched, hands curled into fists against his face like he’s trying to punch the pain right out of himself.
Something in me cracks at the sight of it. I want something I’ve never wanted with anyone before. I want to soothe, to help, to make it better.
I step in. The water is warm, wrapping around my legs as I sink down, ripples spreading until they reach him. He startles when I pull him into my lap, the tub just wide enough that he ends up straddling me. His eyes are wide, glassy, lost.
And just like that, the calm I felt after I culled my demons is gone. Replaced by that tingle that always crawls under my skin when he’s near. The one I can’t fight. The one I don’t even want to anymore.
My hand finds his throat, fingers curling firm around it, thumb pressing into the steadythrum-thrum-thrumof hispulse. He stiffens at first—instinct—then exhales, shaky, and I feel him soften under my grip. The weight of my hand anchors him instead of threatening.
His eyes are huge in the starlight, reflecting the silver ripples. His mouth is parted just enough; his breath ghosts over mine. We’re so close our words die against each other’s lips.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, voice low, rough, my forehead almost touching his. “That guy at the bar—he was already dead. You hear me? Touched. Ready to turn. You didn’t take a life that wasn’t already gone.”
His throat works beneath my hand, a hard swallow against my palm. His voice comes out broken, catching on the edges. “Then why—why do I feel like this?”
“Because you’re not dead inside yet.” My grip tightens. Not cruel, just enough to make sure he feels it, feelsme.“You feel because you care. You feel because you’re not me.”
His breath hitches, lips brushing mine with every word, and godsdamn it, that tingle roars into something even harder to fight.
Fuck it. I’m done with holding back. I can’t keep pretending Ican.
