Page 42 of Trick of the Flesh
“Mi vida,” I whisper when I know he’s asleep.
He’s mine.
Always mine.
FIFTEEN
CALEB
I don’t wakeup so much as surface, like I’ve been floating in dark water and finally let myself breathe. Every part of me aches. My throat, my wrists, my thighs—every nerve still humming with the memory of rope, of Miguel’s hands steadying me, of his voice slipping between filth and praise until I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
For a moment, I tell myself it had to be a dream. Nobody could do those things to me—not here, not under the same roof as my parents.
But the marks on my skin say otherwise.
The faint rope burns circling my wrists. The bruises where his teeth caught my jaw. The ache when I shift on the mattress, remembering the stretch of him inside me.
I touch my own skin like I’m checking if it’s real.It is.Every bit of it.
And the worst part?
I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted all of it.
Is that really the worst? Wanting someone who makes you feel alive?
Maybe it’snot.
I pull on the first hoodie I find, tugging the sleeves down to cover my wrists. When I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself. Eyes too bright, lips swollen, hair a mess from Miguel’s fingers. I look—ruined. Marked. And yet my chest tightens with something that doesn’t feel like shame.
I’m wanted.
Cared about.
For the first time in my life, it feels like someone cares if I wake up in the morning.Who would have thought that it would have been my stepbrother?
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. Celeste’s humming as she flips the omelets, Dad buried in the paper. It’s the same Sunday morning I’ve known my whole life. Safe. Familiar.
And then there’s Miguel.
Already at the table, shoulders filling out his t-shirt, coffee in his hand like he owns the whole room. When his gaze lifts and snags on me, something inside me stumbles. His mouth tilts, just slightly—not the cruel smirk I’m used to, but something softer. Something secret.
Our secret.
Heat floods my face. I drop into the chair across from him, praying my parents can’t see the evidence carved all over me.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dad says cheerfully. “Really taking advantage of being home to sleep in.”
Miguel doesn’t miss a beat, chiming in. “He needed the rest.”
Just that. No teasing, no edge. But the way he says it—gentle, warm—makes my chest ache worse than if he’d shoved me under the table.
Celeste sets down a plate in front of me, fussing. “Eat. You didn’t have much last night.”
I mutter thanks, cutting into the omelet, groaning at how good it is.I miss her cooking.My whole body is jittery, like my skin remembers too much. Under the table, Miguel’s foot brushes mine. Light. Testing. My pulse jumps. I flick my gaze up at him—he only raises his mug, sipping slowly, like he hasn’t just set me on fire again.
I nearly choke on my orange juice when his mom asks, “Sleep okay, honey? You have some serious bags under your eyes.” She grabs my face and turns it back and forth in her gentle grasp. “I have some little ice packs that go here,” pointing to the area. “They will help.”
