“Can you stay close? Please?” Cass asked. “I know I keep making things complicated, but I feel like I’m coming apart and you’re the only thing that feels solid.”
Riot should say no. He should maintain distance. He should find someone to castrate him and muzzle him. He should do literally anything except what he was about to do.
“Okay, princess.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m here.”
Cass immediately curled into him, pressing against his side with a small sound of relief. All that loose hair spilled across Riot’s arm, soft as silk.
This is fine. Just comfort. I can handle this.
But Cass was squirming, plucking at his sweat-damp robes with growing frustration. “I can’t—everything feels wrong. The fabric is too heavy and it’s sticking to me and I can’t—”
“Hey.” Riot caught his hands. “It’s okay. If you need to take it off, take it off.”
Cass hesitated, frowning. “Are you sure? I know it’s not... I mean, I’m not very...” He trailed off, his cheeks flushing darker. “I’m not supposed to.”
“Princess, you’re burning up. If the clothes are making it worse, get rid of them.”
Cass nodded, but his movements were slow and reluctant. He untied his robes and slid his arms free, letting the fabric pool at his waist, then hesitated with his hands on the hem of the thin undershirt beneath. Riot’s hindbrain was practically licking its chop, waiting for those elegant hands to move and show him more.
“I should warn you,” he said quietly, not meeting Riot’s eyes. “I’m not... the meditation masters always said my body reflects my spiritual inadequacy. I don’t want you to be grossed out, so if it makes you uncomfortable, please tell me to put it back on.”
Before he could respond, Cass pulled the shirt off and Riot couldn’t breathe.
Cass was lean and graceful, all elegant lines and sun-kissed skin, the kind of understated beauty that could stop traffic. But that wasn’t what made Riot’s lungs seize.
Scattered across Cass’s chest and shoulders were dozens of perfectly circular scars. Each one about the size of a cigarette burn, but too precise, too uniform. They formed a pattern acrosshis chest and down his sternum. Some were old and faded, pale against his skin. Others were newer, still pink and slightly raised.
What the fuck did they do to him?
Cass hunched his shoulders, arms coming up to wrap around himself, trying to hide the marks. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
“I know,” he said. “It’s unpleasant. And ugly. Brother Matthias says they’re evidence of my spiritual resistance—that if I were properly aligned, they would have healed completely by now. I have them on my back too.”
Riot wanted to put his fist through the wall and to find every person who had ever touched Cass and show them what real pain felt like. He wanted to burn Elysian HQ to the ground and salt the earth where it stood. But Cass was already shrinking, already expecting rejection, already bracing for Riot to confirm what everyone else told him—that he was damaged, deficient, ugly.
So Riot forced down his rage where Cass couldn’t see.
“Can I look?” he asked.
Cass’s head came up, surprise flickering across his features before he looked away. “You... want to? Even though it’s…and on me…”
“Yeah, princess. I want to.”
Slowly, uncertainly, Cass uncurled his arms, letting them fall to his side as he stared at his robes in his lap. Riot reached out, giving Cass time to pull away, and traced the edge of one scar with careful fingers. The skin was smooth, slightly raised. Healed, but permanent.
“These don’t make you ugly,” he murmured.
“But—”
“They don’t.” Riot’s thumb brushed across another mark, mapping the damage with terrible gentleness. “There’s nothing wrong with your body, Cass. Nothing.”
Cass’s lower lip trembled. “You really think so?”
I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I think I want to trace every single one of these scars with my tongue. I think I’m losing my fucking mind.
“I really think so,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself: “You’re not the only one with scars, princess.”
Cass’s eyes widened. “You have more scars?”
