Riot focused on the task—antiseptic, fresh gauze, medical tape. His hands were steady even if his thoughts weren’t. The wounds were healing slowly, those perfect circles scattered across Cass’s chest like some psychopath’s idea of a constellation map. Brother Matthias and his “negative energy release.” Riot had known corporate sadists who at least had the decency to call their torture something clinical. Wrapping it in spiritual language was a special kind of evil.
And you almost added to that collection. Almost gave him a new kind of trauma to carry. Congratulations on your personal growth.
“There,” he said, smoothing down the last piece of tape. “Good as new.”
“Thank you.” Cass caught Riot’s hand before he could pull away. “For everything. Not just the bandages.”
Riot looked at him, at those earnest eyes, that open expression, a face that had apparently never learned to hide anything, and felt his heart, or maybe Brennan’s heart, or maybe the heart belonging to whoever was left, crack somewhere load-bearing.
“You shouldn’t thank me,” he said roughly. “I almost—”
“But you didn’t.”
“I wanted to.” The confession scraped out of him like broken glass. “I still want to. Even now, part of me is looking at you and thinking about—” He cut himself off. “You should be scared of me.”
Cass was quiet for a moment, his lower lip pressing between his teeth as he glanced down. Then his hand tightened on Riot’s.
“I was scared,” he said softly. “When you were... when you couldn’t hear me. That was scary.” He paused. “But you stopped.”
“That’s not—”
“And then you held me. And you were gentle. And you made sure I was okay.” Cass’s thumb stroked across Riot’s knuckles. “That’s the part I’m going to remember. Not the scary part.”
Riot didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to explain that a better person—a person who hadn’t been stuffed full of irremovable experimental tech by a corporation that considered human subjects a renewable resource—wouldn’t have needed to make that choice in the first place. That the fact he’d barely managed it, and still wasn’t entirely sure how, wasn’t the victory Cass seemed to think it was.
“Come on,” he said instead. “Let’s get you dressed and into bed.”
In his pack, Riot found a soft black shirt and helped Cass into it. The fabric swallowed him—hem to mid-thigh, the neck slipping off one shoulder, sleeves past his elbows. He looked like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
“How do I look?” Cass asked.
“Like you’re swimming in it.”
“I like it.” Cass brought the collar to his nose and inhaled. “Strawberries.”
“It’s a very intimidating scent for a Berserker.”
Cass laughed as he climbed onto the bed, settling against the pillows with a sigh. “Are you staying?”
The question carried so much weight, so much trust that Riot didn’t deserve and couldn’t refuse. He was starting to suspect that was going to be the defining pattern of whatever this was—being handed things he hadn’t earned by someone who had no idea of their value.
Cass was warm against him, and Riot couldn’t stop thinking about the choice.
He stared at the ceiling—a ceiling that had the good sense to be blank and unoffensive, unlike the rest of his current circumstances—and replayed the moment when every instinct had screamedtakeand he’d forced himself to stop. It had hurt. Physically, actually hurt, like ripping his own hand off a live wire. But he’d done it, because under all the broken impulse control and the modifications that had turned a reasonably decent person into something that glowed in the dark and scared children, there was still something in Riot that wanted to be good. That wanted to protect instead of destroy.
You have to be better for him,he thought.You have to try.
And underneath that, darker and more honest, with the quiet certainty of someone who’d already lost the argument:You’re going to keep him anyway. Whether you deserve to or not.
It was a profoundly stupid decision. This was not, in itself, unusual.
Chapter twenty-two
Uninvited Guests Don’t Get Parking Validation
Riot
Riotwoketofootstepson the porch.
