Page 39 of Pray for Scars

My fists clench. I don’t speak.

“He’s given you the chance, fucking over and over again. To prove yourself.” Mav scoffs in disgust. “He gave us a break after Lover’s Death got fucked up last year. But not this time.” He raps his knuckles on the table. “Not for Sacrificium. He’s going to kill her. And he’s going to make you watch.”

I close my eyes.

“He’s going to fucking decapitate her, probably literally throat fuck her—”

I take a deep breath.

“—maybe make us all take fucking turns—”

My eyes snap open, and I don’t see anything but red for a second as I dive across Maverick’s fucking table, lunging toward him, sending him and his chair crashing backward onto the dark wood floors. The glasses on the table shatter beside us, and my hands find his throat.

His eyes are narrowed on me, no surprise on his face. I dig my fingers in harder, my teeth bared.

“Don’t,” I growl at him, and I see my own veins straining against my skin. I clamp down tighter on his neck and he smirks up at me as his face turns red. “Don’t,” I repeat, “and if you ever fucking lay another hand on her, if you can’t keep your goddamn eyes off of her, I’ll kill you myself.”

Maverick is my brother.

Vita morteque fratres.Brothers in life and death.

It changes nothing I said. I’ll send him to his death if I have to.

Chapter Eleven

We ride in silence,the only sound the warm air blowing from the Mercedes’s climate system, and the road beneath the tires. Saturday at lunch, and the streets of Alexandria are nearly empty.

I don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t ask. Nicolas gave me a grey, zip-up hoodie to wear, and I’ve got my hands in my pockets; boots Lucifer tossed my way while I stayed at his house curled up underneath me.

I found a payphone. Found some change in the return slot. I’m dead fucking tired, but I made it.

I ran. Again.

I’m not sure if I’ll regret it yet.

Nicolas is wearing basketball shorts, even though it’s fucking November, and a tight, long-sleeve shirt to cover those scars on his arms from his mother. His blonde hair looks a little longer than usual, but his skin is still tan, some freak gene that I didn’t know white people could possess.

I know he has a hideaway in the city. But I know, too, that Jeremiah knows where it is. And if I see my brother today…well, someone will probably die, and it sure as fuck won’t be me. I can miss him and hate him at the same time. I can want him to live and pray he stays the fuck away from me.

My feelings for Jeremiah aren’t too different than my feelings for Lucifer, and that makes me feel…gross.

Nicolas turns into an apartment complex, nice high-rises with a parking lot full of luxury vehicles. He pulls around to the back of the complex, backs into a spot, and turns the SUV off. This isn’t the hideaway he kept when he lived at the Order of Rain. This must be his temporary new home.

I can sense him glance over at me, but I stare at the tall brick buildings, the nice little balconies, many of them with plants dangling dangerously high up, patio sets clustered around glass tables.

What a normal fucking life some people must live. How nice it must be.

“He’s not here,” Nicolas says after a moment, his voice low.

I realize I was holding my breath, probably waiting for him to say just that. I exhale, lean my head back against his leather seat.

“Good.” I wonder if he knows I already saw him.

“Wanna come in?” Nicolas asks me, and he sounds unsure.

I glance at him. “Nah, thought I’d nap out here.”

He blinks, as if he isn’t sure if I’m being serious or not. Hell, I’m not either. He fucked me over, too. But then he shakes his head and reaches for the door handle.