Page 10

Chapter 9

Zach

Everyone’s asleep which is why I waited until after midnight to come home. I’m surprised my father isn’t waiting up to give me some sort of speech about how I blew off family dinner. Like that’s how I wanted to spend my New Year.

It was a relief to be alone in the dorms. No one to bother me, no one to scrutinize the way I act, and no having to try to decode people’s expressions or their various emotions.

Something that’s so fucking easy for the average person is exhausting for me.

I can’t explain why I drove home. Can’t even explain why I’m standing in the doorway of Merci’s room, leaning one shoulder against the frame while watching as his chest rises and falls in the dim glow given off by the night light in the corner.

He’s curled on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other dangling off the edge of the bed. He looks . . . harmless like this. Peaceful. Which is ironic, considering the chaos he leaves in his wake every time he’s conscious.

I turn and look at the opposite side of the frame. Who the fuck removes their bedroom door? It's not rational. If anything, it makes him more vulnerable.

Especially to me.

But it’s been like this from the time he first moved in. My father had taken the door down. Always figured he was just scared of the dark. It explains the nightlight too. Figured he’d grown out of it by now.

Guess not.

I don’t understand him. I never have.

Looking back at Merci, my fingers flex at my side. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched him sleep. Used to do it when he first moved in.

My stepbrother would scream and cry in his sleep, his body thrashing under the covers like he was fighting off demons only he could see. I’d stand here until he settled, until the room fell silent again.

Why?

Again, it’s a question I still have no answer to.

It wasn’t logical, didn’t stop his nightmares. So, the action was pointless.

Yet, something about him tethered me here, night after night, hiding in the shadows. Just until he stopped crying. Just to make sure . . . I don’t know .

Now I want to smother him with his own pillow.

Or climb into bed with him and steal that strange sense of peace that seems to cling to his slight frame.

The past three days have been a special kind of hell. After I walked out, Mrs. Novotny and Coach Harper ambushed me at the dorms. Granted, Viktor gave me the heads up. I was told in no uncertain terms not to harm Merci.

Mrs. Novotny’s a lady I won’t fuck with, not after she made it crystal clear what would happen to me if I did. And fucking Harper reinforced what she said, even threatening to take away my ice time.

My jaw clenches, molars grinding.

No one seems to give a fuck what happened to me.

Except for my friends.

Hockey is my life. It’s the one place I can breathe. I don’t have to worry about understanding emotions, I just need to concentrate on plays. The game utilizes the parts of my brain that actually work. And I’m good at it.

I flex my left hand, the familiar numbness making my heart beat faster. If hockey gets taken away, I truly, wholeheartedly have no idea what I’ll do with my life. If there even is anything I can do.

So, Harper’s fucking threat is worse than Mrs. Novotny’s.

Why the hell did I come home again ?

Should’ve just gone back to Club Labyrinth like I did last night. Nothing like spending New Year’s Eve at a sex club. And it helped—somewhat. I needed to feel in control, and while I don't bottom, I let Marcus, one of the resident sadists, cane me.

It wasn't sexual.

Just . . . necessary.

I didn't tell him about my fucked-up pain receptors or how my brain doesn’t process pain correctly. He didn’t need to know. It was my secret to wield, my power to keep. And watching his frustration build as I took more than anyone should be able to handle brought its own kind of satisfaction.

A twisted power play, but then, what isn't twisted about me?

Merci shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. His shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin above his waistband. My cock twitches, and I rub a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply, then force myself to turn away.

A shower should help, the scalding water washing forbidden desires down the drain into the sewer where they belong.

Once in my ensuite bathroom, I strip out of my clothes, tossing them into a pile on the bathroom floor. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Purple bruises crisscross my ass and up the back of my thighs, angry and vivid against my skin. The welts are clean, the marks left by an expertly wielded cane.

I press my fingertips against one, hard, and wait.

Just a dull ache, muted like always. It’s disappointing. I want to feel, even pain, want to understand it like others do.

My gaze travels to my left arm, where a full sleeve of intricate tattoos stretches from my shoulder to my fingertips, concealing surgical scars. Aesthetics over damage. Easy to hide so coaches don’t ask questions.

Stepping into the shower, I crank the water as hot as it’ll go, the steam curling around me. My skin prickles, but it’s distant, like everything else. I close my eyes, letting the water stream down my back, trying to focus on my breathing like that therapist taught me years ago. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Simple. Mechanical.

People think I can’t feel, that I don’t feel. Think I’m robotic or apathetic. Even psychotic.

Except I do feel.

I just can’t make sense of the emotions, can’t name them. So, I tend to avoid situations where I might have to confront them, or when that’s unavoidable, I use some of the strategies therapists have taught me .

Sure, I come across as clinical or overly logical. But the alternative is letting everyone know about my brain damage, and that’s not an option. Why should I have to tell people about my condition in order to explain or defend myself?

Like Coach Fucking Harper when he insinuated I don’t give a fuck about Viktor.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I grab some body wash and scrub my skin, hoping to chase away the frustration. But then Merci comes to mind—smirking, defiant, infuriating. An emotion strikes, one I can recognize. I hate him, hate how he makes me feel things I don’t understand and can’t name.

Then my mind wanders back to Miami, to how beautiful he looked twisting up in the air, the desperate way he dry humped me in the private room, and to that bratty fucking mouth I wanted shove my cock into.

Fuck.

My hand trails down my abs, wrapping around my hardening length. I stroke myself, each pull firm and deliberate as I picture Merci on his knees, looking up at me with those big, lavender eyes. I can almost hear his breath hitching, feel the warmth of his mouth as he takes me in.

My grip tightens around my shaft as I pick up speed, the water from the showerhead pounding against my back, my breath coming faster. My hips buck forward into my fist, heat coiling in my lower belly as I imagine Merci's lips stretched around my girth, gagging on my length, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I reach down with my other hand, cupping my balls, rolling them between my fingers. "Fuck."

"Enjoying yourself?"

My eyes snap open and I spin around. Merci’s sitting on the sink vanity, legs crossed like he’s the picture of fucking casual. He’s wearing sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Get. Out." I pant, scrambling to pull back from the brink of orgasm.

“Nope.” He pops the “p” with a smirk. “This is my house too, remember? I can sit wherever I want.”

“Not in my fucking bathroom.”

“And I don’t like people watching me while I sleep. It’s creepy as fuck.”

My jaw clenches, nostrils flaring. “You obviously didn’t learn your lesson the last time. My bedroom is off limits.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Any fucks I had flew out the window the moment you drugged and kidnapped me. So, you know, pot, kettle, and all that.”

I turn the water off and step from the shower, water dripping down my body and pooling around my feet. My erection hasn't flagged despite—or most likely because of—his presence.

Merci’s gaze drops downward, and his tongue darts out, wetting his lips, causing more heat to fill my groin and spread to my inner thighs.

"What's wrong?" I step toward him, not bothering with a towel. "All those johns in Miami not enough for you?"

He's off the vanity in an instant, getting right in my face. "Fuck you."

“From the way you're staring, maybe that’s what you want.” I use our six-inch height difference to loom over him.

He tilts his head back to meet my gaze, eyes narrowed. “You’re such a fucking asshole. And to think I was going to apol—”

"Lower your voice."

"Or what?" He gets louder. "You don’t scare—"

I slam my mouth against his. He freezes for a split second, then makes a small, desperate sound—a whimper that goes straight to my cock. When his tongue traces my bottom lip my brain shuts down, allowing instinct to take over, and I open for him.

His hands reach up and fist in my wet hair as I deepen the kiss while backing him into the vanity, my body pinning him in place.

We’re messy and chaotic, all heat and no grace .

I was already on the edge before he interrupted. But grinding my cock against his has me about to explode, and the way his Prince Albert piercing rubs against my length has me bucking into him like an animal about to lose its ever-loving mind.

Merci’s hands skate down to roam my bare chest, nails digging into my skin as his hips move in a desperate rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.

I groan into his mouth, my hole clenching and unclenching, and then he bites my bottom lip.

Hard.

I pull back, running my thumb across my lip. It’s one of the few places I can register pain at a normal level. Blood stains my fingertip. I look back at him, a full-bodied smirk on my lips. "You do enjoy making me bleed, don't you?"

He stares at me for half a second too long, all the color draining from his face right before he turns and bolts out of the bathroom.

Out of my room.

Gone.

Pressure builds behind my eyes. I can't make sense of the sensations in my chest, the tightness in my throat. I just need it to stop. So, I slam my palm against my temple.

And when it doesn’t stop I do it again and again .

I hit harder each time, desperate for sensation, for clarity, for something to make sense of whatever the fuck this is.

But it won't.

It can't.

Because I'm broken, disconnected, incapable of processing emotions like a normal person. And now I'm hard and bleeding and angry and something else, but I don't know what to call it because I don't know anything right now.

Why can’t I just rip my own fucking brain out and make it all stop?