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Chapter Twelve

Ren

“ B yron...” I look at the man in front of me laying on the ground like a child weeping for a mother. “It was a lesson.” Seriously, can he not see that the masterpiece he created is not his sister. Gabriela is safe, away from the darkness. This was just a canvas, someone to show him the way, to pull him under long enough to understand. I thought he would understand like I did. I swallow the lump in my throat, and slowly, I creep towards him, each footstep feeling heavier as I step in the blood pooling in the room.

All I see is red. My hands. The floor.

“RED,” I whisper as I clutch my hair .

“Red. What?” The knife falls from my hand as I step back to look at her before doubling over to puke. “Did I do?”

Confusion.

So many unfamiliar sensations and emotions overtake me. I can’t tell where my body ends and the room begins. Everything is bleeding into everything else as I stare at the open gashes on her stomach. It’s so... so much. The smell is thick, sweet, and suffocating. It clings to the back of my throat and seeps into my skin. I cut down what made me sick but I think this made me terminal. The small, almost translucent body part that sticks out from the abomination within her. A small, almost translucent limb twitches from the gaping wound, slick with blood. I puke again, not able to stomach looking at her face or the remains within her. My hands are sweaty, my heart beats uncontrollably, my ears ring, and all I can see is red.

RED.

RED.

All fucking red .

My mother laid on the bed, staining the white comforter and tiles... Staining the room as much as she stained my life. My vision blurs. Using my arm, the part not covered in crimson, I wipe away whatever is clouding my vision but it still blurs. It burns. I can’t breathe, and then I feel it—an unfamiliar reaction.

I feel the warmth sliding down my face. It doesn’t make sense.

It shouldn’t be me.

I don’t do this.

I slap my face over and over, and suddenly I’m back. There’s red, but it’s on him. This time, I’m not the one covered in it. “Why do you still cry? Gabriela isn’t dead,” I whisper as I crouch beside him, licking away the large tear sliding over his lips. But he doesn’t react. He just lays there, allowing me to turn him on his back and straddle him.

“Byron.” I cup his face in my hands, forcing him to focus on me. “She’s alive. Your light shines to see another day.” But still, nothing... and frustration boils within me. He can’t be broken. This couldn’t have broke him. It was a prank, just a small glimpse of what could happen if he were to leave me. “Stop acting this way,” I yell into his face, pushing my forehead into his.

“STOP FUCKING ACTING THIS WAY.” I slam my forehead into his. Harder. Again. Again. “IT’S PATHETIC.”

But even as my forehead smashes into his, there’s no one home. He’s checked out, and I refuse to let him fall into the void. We are supposed to live in it... mold in it... not drown in it. This was not what I expected. I wanted him willing, not fucking broken. Slamming my forehead into his once again, I feel the warm sticky substance that slides down both of our noses, mixing with the sweat and grime, and finally, he looks at me. What are you doing to me? His gaze isn’t filled with fear or hate, just an emptiness that gnaws at something inside me, something I don’t want to acknowledge.

Everything is too unfamiliar... too unstable, and I hate it. Maybe I should finish the creation, what’s the point of making him great when he wants to be nothing. So I should just let him be nothing, where’s the fun in that? The challenge? I release his face and stand, placing my foot on his face, pressing down just enough to make him squirm, feeling the bone shift slightly beneath my heel.

“You want to be nothing? This all you have to give?” I sneer, bending down so he can see my face, the bloodied mess he’s made of me, the proof of my patience.

“This was a lesson to show you what I will do.” My foot presses deeper into his face, my big toe entering his eyeball, the soft tissue giving way as warmth pools around the pressure.

“YOU FIGHT!” Digging deeper now, the squelch ringing in my ears. “OR she really dies,” I say before removing my foot from his face, and grabbing him by the back of the neck, my fingers threading through his short, damp curls that are growing in, forcing him to see his beautiful creation. The lines are uneven from his hesitation and anger, yet so beautiful, a form of expression truer than words. I’m so sick of giving him choices when all he does is choose to do nothing.

I place his upper body between her legs and kneel behind him, and begin stroking my cock, the heat pulsing through my hand because nothing makes the void hungrier than control. Than destroying. Also, I needed to drown out that annoying little voice screaming to be heard, the one gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering doubts I refuse to acknowledge. To drown out whatever is happening inside me, because I see the small cracks, hairline fractures, creeping into places I don’t want them. I stop mid-stroke as I look at his back, at the small freckles all over it, ones I never noticed until today, like tiny constellations scattered across his skin. Get it together, Ren.

Maybe I should finish this... finish him. Destroy the Thorn and move on with my life. Yet I’m holding back. The frustration, anger, all things that I would contain within until they no longer existed in my world, overtake me and I stroke harder. This will hurt, and I want it to hurt. Desperately. The need coils tight in my gut, the urge to push past the hesitation and to take, to ruin, to silence every thought that dares to make me hesitate. So I push into him, causing him to tense—finally a reaction—but his ass is tight, unlubricated, and painful; his muscles clenching so hard it’s like he’s trying to push me out. But I welcome the pain. And soon he will too, his back arching toward me like his body already knows surrender.

“Relax, look at her,” I say, dropping some spit onto my dry-ass cock, watching it drip down to my tip before working it around his tight hole. It’s barely enough to ease the burn, and not nearly enough to prepare him. “You’re so tight.” I groan, pushing in, using my hand to hold him in place, feeling him struggle against my grip. “Relax.”

“Fuck—“ Ahh, there he goes. He tries to finish his words but I don’t let him. Grabbing his hips, I force myself inside him, splitting him open, dragging him onto me as his body chokes around my cock causing the most exquisite sound to come out of him followed by a small sob—a pathetic, broken sound. But I fuck him through it, savoring the way his body trembles, the way his breath stutters, and the way his pain carves itself into something I can claim.

I pound into him as he continues to sob... soft, pathetic sounds, and no matter how much I try to reach my climax... my happy place where I can escape... there’s nothing. Only movement. I wanted this, but not like this, I expected more, and it fucking angers me. This is not how I expected it to go down. I grip his neck, lifting him up until his body is flush against mine, and do the only thing I can do. Not because I pity him. Not because I regret anything. But because I need him to stay, and I don’t know how else to make him stay. Slowing down, trying to bring him back to the light, not that I know what the fuck I’m doing, but I’m sure this could help. I cover his eyes with my hands, and my mouth kisses his back as I slowly move inside him.

“She’s safe,” I whisper. “Stay with me and keep her safe.” I don’t even know what I’m saying, but it feels right. This feels right... “Just hear my voice.” My hand releases his neck, moving down his tight abs and towards his cock. I’ve never wanted anyone like this but there is something about Byron—maybe it’s the fact that being around him helps me forget. Unlike her, he’s all muscle and scars. No softness.

Byron quiets my mind because he’s not her... and the feeling of his skin on mine makes heat pool in my core as I continue to move with him, kissing the salty tears from his jaw and neck. “Feel this,” I moan into his skin. “How good we feel.” Another slow stroke of his cock while I press deeper into his ass. “How good I make you feel.” Licking the tear trailing down his neck, I bite into his flesh as I move in sync with my hand. He will never top me, but he deserves a little pleasure after all the pain.

“Good boy,” I whisper. “I was lonely, a victim ... of my own prison.” I continue to fuck him causing his body to tremble against my body.

Byron’s body begins to react beautifully. His precum coats my hand, and this feels right. Two souls broken, shattering beautifully for one another. Byron breaks in my arms, his body wrecking while sobs shattered him. He clutches me, not fighting, not pushing away, just holding on, drowning in something deeper than pain. I feel his fingers digging into my skin, but there’s no strength left in them.

“I need you, B.” The words surprise me. “Join me.” Not in love. Not in forgiveness. But in the only thing left between us—ruin. I moan as my dick jumps inside his ass. His moans are soft... as he resists the unspoken truth between us. And we come together, both moaning, both covered in blood... both utterly and completely broken, no longer holding the pieces together, but I hold him through it. I don’t even know why I bother with all this, but holding him is all I want to do. Holding my masterpiece as he comes undone, until my cock softens inside him, his tears stop falling, and my cum leaks between his legs.