“How did your consultation go?” he asked.
Chapter twelve
Tithing with Blood
Cass
Everythinghurt.
Not just the wounds, though those were bad enough, eight points of fire burning across his body in overlapping waves that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. It waseverything. His skin felt like it had been scrubbed raw and then held too close to a flame. The soft cotton of his robe scraped against his chest like sandpaper after being unable to get his undershirt on before Riot knocked, and every time he shifted his weight, thelinen of his pants brushed against the fresh wounds on his thighs and sent pain aching down to his knees.
His hands were the worst. The pain beneath his nails, radiating up into his knuckles, made his fingers curl protectively inward like dying spiders. He couldn’t straighten them without the pain doubling, tripling, and become something he couldn’t breathe through.
And underneath all of it—the fever. Still there. Still burning. Making everything too bright, too loud, toomuch. His muscles felt like they were trying to crawl off his bones, and there was a hollow ache in his belly that felt like it was twisting itself into knots.
There was also a sob trapped in his chest. He could feel it pressing against his ribs, wanting out. He swallowed it down, swallowed it down, swallowed it down.
Riot is here. Don’t cry. Don’t make him uncomfortable. Don’t be a bigger burden than you’ve already been.
But Riot’s presence was the only thing making any of it bearable. Just being in the same room made the burning ease slightly—like cool water on fevered skin, like shade after too long in the sun. Cass wanted to crawl into his arms and never come out. He knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted to press his face against that strawberries-and-cream scent and breathe it in until it replaced the air in his lungs and made the pain stop.
But he couldn’t. He was still bleeding. The wounds on his chest and back were oozing through his robes, and the ones on his thighs—
Don’t think about those.
Warm trails were trickling down his inner legs. He could feel the blood soaking into the fabric of his pants, wet and wrong against his skin. If he moved wrong, if the robes shifted enough, Riot would see.He’ll know. He’ll see how broken I am. He’ll leave.
“How did your consultation go?” Riot asked, settling into the room’s single chair.
His movements looked stiff. Something was wrong with the way he was holding himself—tension coiled in every line of his body, his hands gripping the chair arms like he was trying to press his fingers through the material. But Cass couldn’t focus on that right now. He was too busy trying to keep his fingertips hidden, trying to stand still so the blood wouldn’t show, trying to keep his voice steady when everything inside him was shaking apart.
“It went fine,” he managed. The words came out too high, too thin. He tried again. “Just the usual guidance. Brother Matthias said I’m making progress with my negative energy blockages.”
Usually Brother Matthias helped him with the bandages. He was usually so caring when he cleaned the wounds, applied the salve, and helped him meditate through the worst of the pain. He’d even been concerned about Cass’s flu symptoms at the start of the session—pressing a cool hand to his forehead and frowning at the fever, asking if they should postpone. But Cass had insisted he was fine, that he needed whatever Brother Matthias was recommending, that he couldn’t afford to fall further behind on his spiritual development.
Now Brother Matthias was gone and Cass had been left alone with blood running down his legs and his hands too aching to properly bandage himself.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“That’s good,” Riot said. “Show me your hands.”
Cass’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat. His fingers curled tighter, protectively, and the movement sent fresh agony shooting up through his knuckles. Elysian practices were private and sacred, and the negative energy release was so secret he couldn’t even talk to Honey about it.
“My hands are fine.” He tucked them behind his back, and the motion made his robes shift against his chest wounds. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper, holding back the whimper that wanted to escape. “They’re fine.”
Riot’s eyes narrowed.
He knows. He can tell I’m lying. Oh no, oh no, oh no—
“Princess. Show me your hands.”
“No.” He stepped backward without thinking, and the movement made the wounds on his thighs pull—wet and sharp and wrong—and this time he couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped. “I just—I need to clean up. Could you give me a few minutes? Please?”
“Show. Me. Your. Hands.”
Cass’s whole body jerked backward until his shoulders hit the wall.
He’s angry with me.
