Page 99 of Circus From Hell

I nod once. “Yes. When I killed my father, your mother, and the people who planned on taking you from me.”

He looks away and cringes. I’ve always been desensitised to it. Maybe because my father forced me to watch so much death through a screen, or because I was forced to wrap my head around the murders on my hands so I could focus on looking after Arlo. It took me a long time to regain his semi-trust—trust that I wouldn’t kill him, that I would protect his life, but not trust that I wouldn’t hurt his heart. I have hurt his heart.

I kept him at arm’s length when he needed me most, so terrified that the darkness I live in would get to him. But he can take far more than I ever anticipated.

“Does seeing the violence from Karma remind you of the violence I caused?”

He nods slowly, like he’s afraid of hurting me by telling the truth. I grab the sides of his face and force him to look into my eyes. His deep greens stare intently, searching for something.

“Say the word, and I’ll make sure you never have to see it again. You come first, Arlo. I’ve taken you away before. I can take you away again.”

He shoves my hands away, and his face looks more pained than before. “How can you say that, Micha? How can you so easily leave her? And Soren?”

“I couldn’t. Not Karma. I don’t know Soren well enough,” I whisper. I like him—he’s internally fucked-up despite his well-mannered and stoic exterior—but Karma has ingrained herself deeply into me. “I know she’ll survive anything. We don’t know if she can die. But you, little brother? You can, and that’s a terrifying thought.”

“You’ve kept me hidden for years, Micha. You don’t let me work. You don’t let me have friends.” I part my lips to defend myself; he cuts me off with a soft palm over my mouth. “I know you did it for good reason. I didn’t exist to the world. I only existed to you. And now I exist to Karma and Soren. Please, help me figure out a way to get over my fears. Don’t let me stop existing to them.”

The plea in his voice cracks my heart, and I gently pull away his wrist.

“I don’t want to take you from her, Arlo. The way you are around her? I’ve never seen you like that. Happy. Depraved. You’ve always been a sweetheart. Hell, you’re sweet to a cannibalistic monster. I don’t want to take any of this from you. But I can’t— I won’t lose you.”

“Help me then,” he begs, leaning in closer, and I happily meet him halfway. His lips brush over mine, tentative at first, like we’re unsure of the tone we’ve set. He’s asking for help to get over the traumatic deaths of his mother and stepfather, whilst I’m thinking about how hard I can fuck his pretty mouth.

The kiss deepens when I grab the back of his head. Our tongues mix, and the taste of him makes me groan.

“Fuck it,” I grunt, flipping him over to lie him down on the couch. “You want to get over it? I’ll make you get over it.”

He smiles, like harsh sex and trauma dumping are exactly what he was hoping for and not weirdly messed up at all.

“You don’t like the blood, do you?” I ask before licking up his neck. My leg shifts to rest between his, my thigh grinding against his hardening cock.

“No,” he replies. “Not when it leads to death. I like it when she makes me bleed.”

An idea rushes to my head and my cock.

I pull away. Arlo tries to grab me as I head to the kitchen space and grab the biggest knife from the rack. This could either go really well or really badly.

“What are you doing?” He leans on his elbows and watches me walk back. He swallows loudly when he sees the blade, but I push forward. I crawl back on top of him, holding the knife in front of his face. “Micha?”

“You’re going to cut me.”

He shakes his head. “No. Besides, it’s me who likes pain, not you.”

He’s right. I’m the pain giver, and he’s the taker. But we’re both giving and taking today.

“I don’t care, and don’t talk back to me.” I grab his hand, place the handle in his palm, and force his fingers to close. His hand trembles, and he stares at the blade like it’ll grow legs and attack him. “You’ll associate knives and blood with me and orgasms from now on.”

I grip the hem of his shirt and tear it downwards, splitting it in half and freeing his tattoo-covered torso. Before he can say another word, I pull down his joggers, freeing his semi-hard cock.

“I’m going to watch you get hard,” I announce, grabbing his wrist and pushing the knife towards his own chest. It rises and falls with heavy breaths, and the panic starts to overtake him, but I force him to push past that initial fear and let the tip touch his inked skin. I’m careful to trace the outlines of the tattoos—I think he’d kill me if I ruined his art.

I’m mindful of how hard this could be for him, but I know what pain does to this boy.

“You feel that, Pipsqueak?” I whisper, pressing his wrist to push the knife in. Not enough to cut yet, but enough to dent. He gulps, stretching his eyes to look at what I’m forcing him to do to himself. “Look at your skin taking my knife. Just like your cock is going to take my mouth very soon.”

I don’t miss the way he starts to harden. It’s working.

He whimpers when I add more pressure, and the knife breaks skin. Arlo’s head leans back against the armrest of the couch as he groans loudly, his entire attitude changing as soon as the blood starts to bead around the blade. The sight of him getting off to pain makes my cock ache and twitch, desperate to be buried anywhere inside of him.