Page 64 of Boy of Ruin
He kisses my head, nuzzles his nose against my neck and inhales. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please don’t…” A sob tears through him. I can feel it shuddering through his chest. “Please don’t go.”
And maybe I wouldn’t be thinking about it. Maybe I’d stay.
If this kind of thing only happened when he was sleeping…I might not be planning to run.
“Baby, can you give me a fucking hand?” Jeremiah’s snarl brings me back to the present, and I realize he’s got my door open, standing just outside of it, weighted down with bags, a suitcase in each hand.
The strap of one duffel bag cuts into his muscular chest, the dress shirt he’s wearing wrinkling beneath the strap. His eyes are hard on mine, his full lips pulled into a scowl.
I glance at his forearms, the flex of hard muscle. But it’s not that I’m looking at. I’m well-acquainted with just how fit my brother is. Instead, it’s the way his left hand is gripped so tight around the handle of the suitcase, his knuckles are blanching, and his hand is…trembling.
There it is again.
“Sid!” he snaps, and I pick my head up, reaching to undo my seatbelt. He jerks his chin to the door. “I just need you to enter the keycode. Or maybe, I don’t know, get out of the fucking car?”
I roll my eyes, glancing again at his hand.
What happened to you?
I get out, slam the door closed behind me as my combat boots hit the paved driveway. “This is a cabin?” I ask, trying to pull one of the matte black suitcases from his hand, but he jerks it away from me.
“Just get the door,” he mutters, nodding toward the colossal entranceway.
“Yes, sir.” I roll my eyes and walk in front of him, toward the steps.
“Don’t say that again,” he warns from behind me as he follows. “You’ll make my dick hard.”
I swear I feel his eyes on my ever-expanding ass, but I hold up my middle finger as I bite my tongue. Memories of him, sweaty and breathing hard on top of me in the gym, spring to my mind.
My hand around his cock when we left North Carolina.
Yeah. I’ve felt his hard dick.
A few times.
Don’t go there.
I can’t.
Sometimes, I’m still getting used to the idea that he’s not my brother. Not by blood, anyway. And my blood brother? I feel my face flame as I reach the double doors of the “cabin.”
Thinking about Mayhem’s belt around my throat makes my knees feel weak, and yeah, maybe I shouldn’t get so fucking turned on at the memory of it, considering we share a fucking father but…the mind is a sick place.
At least, mine is.
Even still, I shove those thoughts away. It’s not that relation, or even the fact that Jeremiah was my foster brother that bothers me most.
It’s…my husband.
Lucifer would never forgive me for that. He’s forgiven me for so much already, but that he would never get over.
And I don’t have a plan. I don’t know what happens after this, but I don’t want him to spend the rest of his life fucking hating me. I don’t want to be that person to him. He’s suffered enough.
Just thinking of it…I want to run back to him.
But then I remember the scar above my brow, then Noctem, and I just…can’t.
“What’s the passcode?” I call out, eyeing the keypad flush against the stone. It’s solid black, like the one at our house. Mine and Lucifer’s.
