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But he doesn’t have a chance. He might be an athlete, but I’m much bigger than him.
I shove him against the side of the tub, my knees on either side of his thighs, caging him in place as I snatch his wrist.
“Don’t, Nikolai. Don’t!” He speaks in a tone I’ve never heard before, all broken and full of panic before he whispers, “Please, I beg you, don’t see that part of me…”
I keep my eyes on his lost ones as I tug the watch free, sending it flying across the floor.
Sure enough, there’s a Band-Aid around his wrist.
“Please,” he begs again, his hand in mine trembling, curling, flexing, twisting away. “Please…”
I rip it off in one go and all air whooshes out of my fucking lungs.
The skin is red over a cut that slashes through the line in his wrist. A few other older cuts line his skin, horizontal to the first, methodically put so they’re never wide enough to exceed the strap of his precious watch.
His hand goes limp in my grip and I stare at his face. Only, he’s looking down at the water, his head bowed, his shoulders defeated.
Jesus fucking Christ.
All my anger disappears. On its behalf, a loathsome feeling rips through me like wildfire.
Fucking fear.
Those nicks of the razor were not a coincidence. They were a sign.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I ask in a voice I don’t recognize. “Fucking look at me, Brandon!”
He slowly raises his head, his lips trembling.
“You cut yourself?” My words are low, but they’re so loud in the silence. “Why?”
“Because I’m fucked up.” His voice sounds like death’s lullaby, anguished and shattered. “Because I look at myself in the mirror and get the urge to shatter it to pieces. Because I’ve been haunted by the bitter taste of nausea and self-loathing for so long, I don’t know how to live without them. I was doing fine, pretending and putting on a façade, so why the fuck did you ruin that? Why did you come into my life and destroy every wall I built and ruin every lie I told myself? Why do you touch me like I’m beautiful? Why don’t you hate me when I can’t stand my-fucking-self?”
“I can’t hate you, baby. It’s impossible.” I lift his wrist up and brush my lips at the edge of the cut.
A whimper falls from his mouth and he throws himself at me. I stagger but he keeps me in place by wrapping his arms around me.
His fingers dig into my skin and it hurts as he squeezes me against him. His trembling body fuses to mine and he breathes harshly into my neck.
“Baby? You okay?”
“Please…” His voice is muffled. “Please let me hold you like this. It doesn’t hurt when you touch me.”
I grab onto him, pressing him further into me, harder, closer, until I’m not sure where I end and he begins.
Seems that Bran runs way deeper than I thought, but as he hangs on to me as if I’m his only anchor, I know that I’ll never let him go.
Not even if I burn with him.
For him.
Inhim.
I’d willingly catch fire if he so much as asked me to.
27
BRANDON
