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6
Xeno
Standing before the wall of mirrors in the Freed’s home gym, I look at the man I’ve become. I see someone who’s dangerous, violent, cruel. I see someone who has taken life and barely flinched. I’m that person.
I do what others find intolerable.
Last night we came close to losing Pen forever.
If he’d gotten away with it, Malik Brov would’ve had her locked up in his fucking castle dancing for him like a goddamn puppet on a string. Once inside, there’s no getting out again. She would’ve been lost to us. They would’ve broken her.
Pen is strong. There’s no fucking doubt about that, but to survive that place…? I’ve heard the rumors about the Brov family, and if they’re true then they really are twisted fucks. Cruelty, violence, torture, degradation, sexual exploitation, sadism, it all happens behind the walls of that remote castle.
According to Grim, only one of The Masks is Brov’s natural son, the other two were stolen. Malik Brov— a real life fucking Rumpelstiltskin—took those families firstborn sons in payment of a long-held debt. Rumor has it he brainwashed those boys, including his own son, using torture to bring them to heel. He twisted them up good and proper. Put it this way, the whole family is a Brothers Grimm fairytale come true. There’s no happy ever after shit up at that castle. It’s the real fucking deal.
Knowing all of that, knowing how close we were to losing Pen, hits me like a bad high. My knees give way, and I have to press my clenched fists against the mirror to keep myself upright. My head drops between my shoulders and I force myself to breathe. To inhale precious oxygen before I drown in my own guilt.
I fucked up dancing with her. I fucked up so bad.
Of all the stupid, selfish things I’ve done, stepping into the cage and dancing with Pen tops them all. There are no excuses. None. I don’t deserve her love.
I let my emotions take over, and it could’ve cost her life.
Thank fuck for Grim, for Beast. Thank fuck for my brothers because the truth is, she’s safe because of them. Not me. Upstairs she’s sleeping off her ordeal and all I want to do is go into her room, lay down beside her and fold her into my arms. I want to comfort her. I want to fucking protect her. Love her. Fuck her. I want to fuck her.
Jesus. My need to bury myself inside of her is torturous. It’s taking every last drop of self-restraint to hold back because touching her is dangerous.
Truth be known, dancing with Pen has unleashed the savage within. There’s this dark energy right in the pit of my stomach that feels like a goddamn cyclone.
I can barely contain it.
Dancing with her has opened the door to its cage. This beast, this untamable, fearsome fucking monster of emotion writhes in the pit of my stomach. It lives and breathes. No longer dormant.
Now that it's out, there's no locking it back inside.
And I will tear the fucking world apart to keep her safe.
The thought of anyone hurting Pen has me wanting to break out of my own skin; it makes me wanna go fucking psycho.
I almost did.
I had every intention of flying out to Mexico and putting a bullet in the head of that sick fuck, David. I would’ve done it too if Hudson hadn’t talked me down from making a fatal fucking mistake. It wasn’t time. We’re not ready. Not yet. He convinced me to stay. He convinced me to keep my shit together, so I spent the last week in this house getting a hold of myself, getting my head straight and my emotions in check, only to lose my shit again the second I found out what Malik had planned. You see, there is something fundamentally wrong with me.
Something I’ve been protecting Pen from all this time.
My mum always said that I was a sensitive kid. That Ifelttoo much. That Ilovedtoo hard. It was overwhelming feeling everything so intensely, so much so that I would hurt myself.
I was ten the first time I hit myself.
I slapped myself across the cheek so hard that my mum had to cover up the red handprint for fear my teachers would send around social services. Over time the slapping wasn’t enough, and I would resort to punching myself, learning that I should hit myself on parts of my body that could be hidden beneath clothes. Then I began to cut my skin to relieve the pressure. Just tiny little nicks in places where no one would see because I needed release, relief. It was blissful, cathartic. I used to watch the blood slide down my leg, dripping from my skin. It would numb the emotions enough to get through another day. The tattoo on my arm covers some of them, the others are close to my crotch, high up on my thigh, hidden by more tattoos. The Breakers never knew. I kept that part of my past hidden. My dark, dirty little secret.
My mother always feared that my inability to curb my emotions would be the ruin of me. So she taught me to keep everything contained, under wraps. She taught me how to funnel that passion, those emotions, into something else. Into dance. Into Bachata.
That’s why I never asked Pen to partner with me. It’s why I kept her at arm's length for so long. I was safe dancing with her in a group but partnering with her would’ve changed things. It would’ve unleashed all the dormant emotions inside. I could keep them in check with girls I didn’t really give a shit about. I could even keep them in check around my best friends because the way I feel about them, though powerful, isn’t a patch on what I feel for her.
Pen.MyTiny.
Dancing with Tiny intimately like that would’ve made me volatile in a way I couldn’t control, but now that I have danced with her, these long-trapped emotions are dying to find a way out and keeping them inside is killing me.
