Page 76 of Breaking Isolde

Just for a little while.

Just until the pain goes away.

Maybe longer.

I lie flat, staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind my head, the other draped over his bare shoulder. He’s now curled into my side, face buried in my armpit, like a child hiding from monsters. I run my hand down his back, feeling the raised lines of old scars, the places where the skin never healed quite right. Some are thin, white, almost invisible; others are thick, jagged, the product of years of violence and survival.

I trace them, one by one, wondering what story each tells.How many times has he been the hunted? How many times did hebleed for someone else, or because of someone else? How many times did he pretend not to care, just so he could care more?

More importantly… who the fuck did this to him?

He stirs, nuzzles closer, and tightens his grip around my waist. He’s heavier than he looks, a dead weight, like he’s using me to anchor himself to the world.

It’s so sweet, it almost makes me want to protect him from whatever is haunting his nightmares.

It almost makes me want to forget that he’s the reason I’m here.

The reason Casey isn’t.

My fingers move up despite my warring emotions, finding the nape of his neck, the place where his hair curls against his skin. I scratch lightly, and he sighs, shifting just enough to expose the curve of his jaw. He is so beautiful, angelic almost, it makes something twist in my chest.

If he stays asleep, I can imagine he’s never done a bad thing in his life.

But then he breathes out, and I hear the hitch, the catch, the edge of a nightmare lurking just behind his eyelids.

I want to ask what he’s dreaming about. I want to wake him, shake him, make him look me in the eye and tell me why he does the things he does.

But I don’t.

Instead, I pull him closer, pressing my lips to his forehead. He doesn’t move, doesn’t wake.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, the dust motes spinning in the sunbeam that slips through the broken curtain.

I should hate him. I should want to run, to rip out the part of me that wants him.

But I can’t.

The truth is, I like the way his arms feel around me, the way his breath warms my skin, the way his scars line up with mine.

I like it too much.

He mumbles in his sleep, something I can’t make out. His hand tightens on my stomach, pulling me closer. I curl into the warmth, letting the world spin around us.

For a while, it’ll enough.

I count seconds, breaths, heartbeats.

I wonder what comes next.

I wonder if this is what it means to survive.

My hand finds his, flat on my belly. I lace our fingers together, and squeeze.

A promise.

Or a warning.

I close my eyes, and let myself drift.