Page 63 of Filthy and the Beast

She grabs wet wipes and bandages, handing them to me with a bottle of water, eyes on the road the whole time. “You take a seat right in front there. Get yourself cleaned up, okay?”

I nod. “Okay.”

On the way home, I’m stunned, but I do what she says. I cover my scrapes, wrapping a bandage around my forearm and sticking another to my cheek. Once I finish drinking the water and the bus arrives at my stop, I realize I should call someone.

Holy shit. A mugging.

My head spinning, I let myself into the house. It’s empty and quiet. I walk straight toward Enzo’s wing, but of course the door is shut. As soon as I get there, I remember him saying he had an errand to run and afterward he would retire early.

I want to knock. I try to send psychic messages, willing him awake. My hands are shaking, and I can’t think straight to know what I should do, if it’s okay to need him.

Freaking out, I go into the kitchen and bang around. I pull out a bag of dog treats and shake them, trying to summon the girls. I most want to wrap my arms around Enzo, but the dogs sound pretty nice, too.

Eventually, I stop opening and closing cupboards and walk back to the door to Enzo’s quarters. He’s so clear he doesn’t want me to go in there. I did when he was hurt once, and he dragged me into the bathroom when I gave him a rimjob, but can I go to him when I’m hurt?

I press my hand against the wood, crushed by how heavy it feels. Enzo’s part of the house has always loomed in my imagination, but it’s never felt more distant than it does tonight.

This is his boundary. One of many. And in our “perfect” relationship where we’re not really boyfriends, I can’t open this door without his permission.

I pull my hand away.

I feel shaky again, crashing from adrenaline. Luckily, though, I don’t need Enzo to feel okay. I have my friends and family. After washing up in the bathroom, I call Nico.

When he hears my voice, he switches immediately to video. We stare at each other, and the shock of everything hits me again, tears welling up and my voice caught. I collapse on the massive bed, take a deep breath, and recount the night.

And with my best friend listening, I start to feel safe again.

* * *

ENZO

Rubbing the heel of my palm against my face, I try to will away the headache I’m carrying from last night.

Anniversary of the fight. Fucking Vegas Thrashing. Always mark the day by visiting the lake at sunset, driving home, and knocking myself out with whiskey.

Saw a Northern Goshawk. Stunning in flight. White stripe over its red eyes. Made the night a little better.

Part of me wanted to mark the occasion with Damian. Take him to the lake. Would have helped more than any bird. Hard to keep my shit together on Vegas night, though, and I’m not going to ruin the lake by baring my ugly soul to Damian.

Water. Breakfast.

Best way to get rid of a hangover is food and a workout, so I tug on my sweatpants and wander to the kitchen. When I get there, I stop in my tracks.

Damian is pouring coffee in big pink pajama pants and a t-shirt for his old gamer café, and there’s a bandage on his cheek.

He turns to face me. A much bigger bandage wraps his forearm.

“Holy shit.” I rush over to him, and the girls go running just as fast. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Damian puts down the coffee. Though he's obviously hurt, he holds his back straight. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t fucking worry.” I pull him in for a hug, clasping my arms behind his back. The pain of the hangover is somewhere else; I just feel his body safe in my arms. “What happened?”

I might be squeezing him too hard. Quickly, I become self-conscious. Maybe I’m acting too much like a boyfriend.

I step back.

Damian swallows. “I got mugged last night. Well, I got away.”

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