Page 59 of Pray for Scars
She steps up to me, shoving me against the opposite wall. Then she lifts her hand up as if she’s going to slap me, but I’m faster, catching her wrist. I yank her forward.
“What did I tell you, Sid?Violence is never the answer.”And then I shove her off of me. “Get the fuck out of here. I never want to see your fucking face again.”
When I do, you won’t see me. You won’t see anyone.
I turn around to walk off, not giving a damn how she’ll get out of here. She’ll probably have Jeremiah pick her up, but that fucker will be dead soon, so I don’t care.
I kept him alive for her.
Fuck that.
Neither of them deserve it.
Just as I reach the door, something sails past my ear and then a wine bottle shatters right in front of me. I jump back as red splashes against the white door, glass flying in every direction, the sound ricocheting in the foyer.
My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it might fucking shoot right out of my chest. I don’t even turn around yet as I try to take in what just happened. She just threw a wine bottle at my head.
No. She threw it at the door, so it wouldshatterright in front of my head. I can smell it, the alcohol stinging my nostrils.
Two can play this fucked up game. I like playing with sharp things.
I squat down, fingers trembling, but she doesn’t have to know that. I pick up the biggest sliver of glass I can find, a few inches long, and jagged.
I stand up, and turn to face her, the makeshift blade in my hand.
“You like blood play, Sid?” I ask her.
Her eyes flicker from the shard of glass to my face, but she doesn’t speak.
I stalk toward her, watch with satisfaction as she backs up. She didn’t think this would happen. She didn’t think this one through.
She reaches for her hoodie pocket and I see her yank out a switchblade, and I laugh as she thumbs the button, releasing the blade.
“This will be fun.”
I lunge toward her, careful to hold the glass overhead as I grab her arm, the one holding the knife. I raise it up, too, pressing so hard against her bones they rub together. Our bodies collide, and I hate that I love how she feels against me. Especially with that goddamn knife in her hand.
“Drop it.”
She doesn’t of course. She’s trying to claw at my forearm, the one holding the shard of glass.
I lower it quickly, press the jagged edge against her throat, watching in satisfaction as she stills, her silver eyes wide, lips parted in surprise.
“Drop the knife.”
It clatters to the floor and I lower both of our hands, still gripping her wrist in mine. I don’t move the glass from her throat.
“Lucifer,” she says quietly. I like this Sid. Meek. Obedient. Scared of me. “Lucifer...”
“Don’t you want to bleed for me a little more, Sid?” I ask her, thinking of the scars on our legs. Of that night when she was mine. Just for a little while. “Don’t you want to bleed for me again, let me taste you? The real you?”
“I—”
“You what?” I loosen my grip on her wrist but don’t let her go completely, the glass still at her throat. “You only like to suffer for Jeremiah, is that it?”
She glares at me but doesn’t say a word.
I slide the glass down a little so it’s over her hoodie and not her skin, worried my hands will shake when we talk about this again. I want her blood all over me. But not yet.
