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Another kind of warmth sinks into my bones. I’ll never tire of hearing him say these things to me. Just me.

I’ll never tire of listening to him. He’s opening up to me and I embrace it fully.

“Was it always like this for you?”

“You mean before my dad beat me up?” His tone is flat.

My throat locks.

It’s devastating, his story. Every time he brings it up, a small part of me dies. It’s the worst kind of pain. Worse than Dad’s insults and beatings. Worse than having these boys touching me.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to share it with you.” He’s closer to me somehow, his body and his soul. “My dad would raise his voice. His fists. Mom let him. She never left, and I understand why. I get why she stayed. Why she stood by when he punched and kicked me. He was huge and violent. He hit both of us. What came after that was what put her on my shitlist. She wouldn’t come into my room. Wouldn’t ask how I was. No patching me up, nothing. She let me bleed and told my teacher I was a clumsy kid.”

“Oh, Kaleb.” I’m crying. Can’t help it.

“Don’t cry over it. Over me. I don’t.” His flat tone tells me he isn’t faking it. I hurt regardless. “I’m just fucking here, telling you what you wanted to know. If I was born that way. I was. I didn’t care that she didn’t give a fuck about me. Didn’tneedher to. That’s what I’m trying to say. I never gave a shit if she was on my side or his.”

It doesn’t matter that none of what happened affected him. I hurt for him anyway. He’d been living with these monsters for over fourteen years. Fourteen years of abuse. It never should’ve happened to him.

Ever.

“Kaleb.” The lump in my throat is big. Huge. Suffocating.

I need him. So I reach for his cheek, stroking my fingertips over his stubble. His high cheekbones. He’s hard beneath my fingers. Cold.

Mine.

“What?” His harsh glare pierces me.

“I’m so sorry.” I scoot closer to him, sliding one leg between his and slipping my palm down to his naked chest. “I’m so terribly sorry they did that to you.”

“Don’t.” His eyes narrow. Fingers bury into my cheek. “This isn’t a poor-me story. I won’t have your pity. I’m talking to you. We’re having a conversation.”

“You can’t tell me how to feel.”

“I can and I will.” The malice bleeding from him makes me shiver. Makes me fall for him that much harder. “I’ll belt your wounded ass for days if you stare at me like that again. I’ll use my teeth and knife to scar every inch of your skin. Especially that part.”

When his fingers skim over the scar Dad gave me, a hum escapes me.

“I’ll cut you up.” He looks dangerous in the moonlight filtering through the window.

Kaleb’s mask could instill fear in a person’s heart, sure.

The sharp angles of his face and how well he blends into the night are far more terrifying than anything I’ve ever seen.

“I won’t stop there.” The swipe of his thumb along my wet cheek is a warning. “I’ll jerk off and come inside the gash. It’ll burn and you’ll cry and I won’t care. I’ll hold you down and do it for hours.”

I blink. Nothing else to do in the face of his crude words. The depraved images. My bones shake.

“Your tears and pain will always be abetter reaction than your pity.”

My eyes probably reflect my fear and arousal. He studies me for a beat longer, then nods.

“Just so you know, I don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for her.” Kaleb’s blasé as he continues his story. Direct. Honest. As if he hadn’t planted horrifying and tempting images in my head. “Maybe I would’ve tried to help her if she had shown me that she cared. When she asked your dad to let me stay, it was too late for us. I don’t want and never will help her. Or anyone. Anyone other than you. You were the only person who ever made me feel.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed that he’s skipped a huge chunk of his life. Between the beatings and our parents getting married after two months of dating.