Page 10

Micah steps to the side of the bed and crouches, giving me a few bites of fish. It’s very unlike him to spoon-feed me, but then again, he hasn’t been himself since Maison died. Subtle things, but some big ones, like how much he dotes on me now. Almost as if he’s emulating his brother… giving me what he thinks I want in this moment. But in actuality, I need him more than anything—the version he gave me the first night we were at this cabin. Right now, I want more of that version.

But I’ll take the sweet side of Micah if that’s the side he wants to show me right now. I’ll let him do whatever he wants, as long as he heals and I don’t lose him to the darkness that lingers so close to the surface.

He runs his fingers along my shattered hand. “Ball your fist for me, London.”

I can move my fingers, but squeezing my hand is excruciating. “I can’t…”

“Do it, baby, please. You’ll lose the ability to use your hand if you don’t try.”

My hand shakes as I try my best to squeeze it, but it’s literally impossible. Tears threaten to fall from my eyes as he takes me in, watching my wincing face rather than the hand he’s trying to rehabilitate.

His eyes are etched in concern as he shakes his head. “It needs more time. You have to rest it. Which means you have to rest more.”

Another reason why he won’t touch me.

I bite my lip to shake off the tears, both from the pain and the overwhelming sense of longing for someone so close. He checks the wound on my hip while I run my good hand through his hair, playing with it and tugging it. “I’m healing, Micah. I promise you that I’m not going anywhere.” My lungs tighten, which happens anytime I think about him leaving, or me leaving, or about either of us dying.

But I’m better, almost back to whatever normal is these days, and I want his hands on me. I daydream about it when I’m not shaking during my nightmares.

I shift beneath him, pulling my shirt up, and bare everything to him.

“London,” he warns, but he can’t take his eyes off me. I’m tired of waiting for him; I reject the notion that I should feel guilty for desiring happiness amidst my sorrow. I need to take in the pain I see in his eyes and absorb it into me. I shift my hips, spreading my legs for him, splaying myself out like a platter.

The bruise he gave me the other night is now yellow. He’s staring at it and furrowing his brows, as if regretting giving it to me to begin with and fighting some internal battle while I run my finger over it.

“Is this what you need?” I ask curiously, intertwining his fingers with mine over the sensitive spot. The pressure on it hurts. It hurt a lot while he was giving it to me, but I didn’t hate it.

I forgot everything else—my hurt, anger, suffering—my mind occupied with how hard he was sucking. I didn’t realize at first that he was punishing me as I enjoyed the sensation of his soft lips on my body since he’s held back so much with me.

He tilts his head as if considering. His lips part, and his dark eyes are back to their regular brooding expression. I bite my tongue before saying what I want to say, bringing up Maison again. That’s what will make him snap and let out all his pent-up emotions. Otherwise, he seems too content, nothing like a person who just lost his twin should appear.

I swallow a lump in my throat. How do I ask for this? How do I articulate that I want him to bruise me? To hurt me?

I’m fucked up even thinking about it.

He licks his lips like a dog about to devour a bone. He pulls off his shirt, his muscles rippling, and he looks as sexy as ever. The long strands of his hair are tousled and fall over his eyes, the shadows dancing behind him making him glow. He’s always been ethereal to me, but right now, he looks like a god. Deadly.

I run my hand down his cheek. “Please, Micah. You want to do this to me, don’t you? You want to hurt me?”

Still, he does nothing, just stares at my skin. The vein in his neck pulses, his pupils dilating, the demons fighting within him.

Suddenly ashamed of begging, I pull my wolf blanket over me, dragging my eyes away from him, blocking any further view of my body as a draft blows through the door. I purse my lips, my body shaking as he sits in silence.

I flinch away from him. “Why won’t you? Is it because you think I’m going to die or something? Or do you believe I still love him more than you?”

He scoffs, flexing his jaw.

“What the fuck is it?” I snap at him.

His dark eyes flicker dangerously, all signs of playfulness gone, replaced by the dark, cold stare I’m used to. He flexes his jaw as he beholds me in the way he used to when he hated me—or when he wanted to tear my clothes off.

His voice comes out dark and dangerous, the intensity making my insides weep. “I told you. When I start, I won’t stop. I’ll hurt you, London, and I’ll fucking enjoy it. Trust me, sweetheart, it’s not what you want.”

I hold his heavy stare, my heart a pitter-pattering mess. Gathering every ounce of courage, I finally ask, “Why won’t you talk about him?”

This garners a reaction. He can’t hide the pain in his face as he rips the blanket off me and leans over me menacingly. “I don’t want to talk about him, London.”

Maison said those same words to me once…